


Lost and Found

by callih



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:57:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 59,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callih/pseuds/callih
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Finch loses the things he values most in the world, among them, John Reese..he is unsettled, finding himself adrift in the chaos which once was his life. Doubts and recriminations have set in and Finch is left wondering over his decision to give over his Creation to those that have proven untrustworthy. He finds solace and understanding in the most unlikely of people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost And Found

_YOU ARE LONELY_

The dark haired woman almost started from her reverie, not yet accustomed to the 'Voice In Her Head' constantly intruding upon her _private_ moments.

There was, at once, a disturbing quality about her new found friend and yet there was also a soothing reassurance which accompanied the uneasy acceptance Samantha Groves displayed these days.

Her world had definitely changed over the past few months.

The young woman quickly recovered her senses, having been lost in thought, her pretty but indistinctive face having a rather pensive look, the dark brown eyes allowing a certain sadness, which now was replaced by the more guarded, sardonic humor Samantha often presented to the world.

"I learned early on.." 'Root' smiled wistfully. "It is far better to be on one's own than to be forced to associate with those of my own kind." She turned from the magnificent view afforded her, in truth, barely having noted it.

_HUMANS NEED COMPANIONSHIP_

Samantha smiled wryly. "If you say so." She crossed to the bed housed in the luxurious suite of rooms, continuing with her packing. "Where to from here?"

The week in Paris had been a productive one, at least, according to her newly appointed 'Advisor'.

Root was secretly beginning to question the validity of the assignments passed down by the 'All-Knowing, Omnipotent Being' which whispered in her ear from time to time.

An uneasiness had settled in her soul..what was left of it these days.

Samantha self-consciously touched her ear, her fingers running about the small crevices, her mind troubled. Things had gone South fast. She found herself wondering how she had gotten to this point.

Her Mother had told her often, that 'God' works in His own time and His own way.

That 'God' was inscrutable.

'Root's God would never act in such a haphazard manner.

She had, from an early age, felt an inexplicable affinity with the precise, logical systems introduced to each child at any educational facility. Data processing appealed to her analytical, orderly mind.

Over time, computers had proven much more reliable companions than her peers.

She had always been the out sider in school. Never finding any real interest in the mundane topics her age-group seemed deem so very important.

Clothes, boys..shoes, the latest Movie Heart-throb, boys..make-up..boys.

Not that she had not tried to assimilate at first..she had.

Children could be so cruel..that axiom had been driven home with skilled excellence.

She had learned how to fight back though..to survive, and over a very short interval of time, to prevail over those less intelligent..less focused.

Samantha found solitude comforting and it gave her time to cultivate valuable skills that would eventually become of great importance to her.

_YOU VALUE THE NOVEL_

Root blinked, glancing at the book she had just placed gently into it's usual slot inside her travel case.

"It's your life story." She quipped. "in a sense."

Her fingers trailed along the slightly raised lettering.

_I DO NOT KNOW THIS WORK_

"Something of which you have no knowledge?" Root doubted such a dubious statement but realized, it was the Machine's way of asking a question. "The premise is rather simplistic in nature." The woman smiled gently. "It's about a computer system that helps Mankind put a halt to famine, disease and Wars."

_DEFINITELY A WORK OF FICTION_

Samantha chuckled. "Absolutely." The Machine's insight into human frailties often produced such amusing comments. At first, it had been disconcerting..that a 'machine' might possess a sense of humor. Root was becoming more relaxed with such a concept, however. "Of course, the Humans fought such enlightenment tooth and nail, rebelling like petulant children being told they must eat their veggies because it was 'good for them'."

_HUMANS MUST HAVE FREEDOM OF CHOICE_

"Trouble is, _with that_." Root shrugged aimlessly. "We always choose poorly."

_Was she any different_ , Root had to question herself of late.

When had it started to change?

When had the doubt, the confusion begin to set in?

It had all been so perfectly clear before.

Samantha Groves had no close friends, preferring it that way after what had happened to Hanna .

Hanna Frey had been her only friend back in the day. Samantha felt as if she had found the sister she had always wanted..needed in her life. Hanna became a confidant, a mentor of sorts. An older girl who didn't look down on her , who didn't seem to find her weird or unacceptable.

But that security was soon taken from Samantha and the fact that she avenged Hanna's death in her own unique way, because certainly, the adults, including the Authorities in that small Texas town, had not bothered to do so..it did not take away the pain or hatred she felt for those that had failed Hanna so heineously.

Which included herself. She carried the guilt to this day.

If only she had done this or that.. or done more, perhaps. If only she had not been so intimidated by that stupid fat cow of a Librarian.

Root had worked diligently for years on the problem and in the end, it had been so very simplistic to solve. A rather gratifying outcome for all that although, deep down, something had never 'clicked' in Samantha's head until John Reese had found Hanna, giving her friend a proper resting place.

_Root owed the man for that_.

She hadn't forgotten.

After she had settled the score for Hanna, Samantha had moved on, never looking back until.. _Harold Finch had entered her life_.

Samantha's thoughts wondered yet again, her hands stilled over the laid-out array of clothing and travel articles laying on the expensive coverlet.

_Why had she told him? Why confide such a thing_?

Had she needed to see the revulsion mirrored in her own soul in those shocked, critically accusing eyes?

But Harold Finch had fooled her and in the end, it was she who ended up shocked and critical of such an individual.

His face registered empathy and forgiveness, after a long beat..and a definite sadness.

Root remembered being furious with him for the fact. Still, he had not offered sympathy which she would have loathed.

Being responsible for the deaths of those people in that office all because someone had wanted fifteen million dollars..money.

Odd, she hadn't considered that anyone might die because of her actions..not that it would have bothered her much, she didn't think. She didn't put much value on human commodities back then.

_Did she do so now?_ Had she changed?

Samantha didn't think so, but Harold's reaction had shaken her a bit. He was clearly a man who realized, bad things and worse people lived out there in the Cosmos.

No, he genuinely could put aside personal feelings, for he must have felt repulsed by her confession. He was such a gentle soul, after all.

He hadn't judged or condemned her. He had actually offered support of sorts and assistance. She wondered what would have happened had not Fusco interrupted that night.

It was probably best that the large detective had, of course.

Did she resent Harold for his kindness? In the days which followed, she found herself unreasonably moody and out of sorts. She chalked it up to it being her time of the month but deep down, she knew it was more.

She actually had felt remorse over those people's deaths. An entirely new emotion for the woman who rarely gave any credence to others, truth told.

She had hardened her heart, built carefully constructed walls more impregnable than any firewall or security system she had ever encountered.

This man _..this Harold Finch_! He had brought her to honest, heart-felt tears. Which she had deployed not to mention, she had displayed a weakness before him! An unforgivable breech in Root's book of ideology!

The realization disturbed her so very much that she was second-guessing her involvement with the Machine. With her God!

It was a safer, more secure world, mentally and physically she had left, to come to this New World Order.

She longed for the days when everything was rather black and white. Decisions were so easily come by minus all this stupid emotional baggage Harold insisted she adopt in order to be acceptable in _HIS_ world.

Root didn't need his world. She was quite self-sufficient on her own.

His world complicated her's.

_HE NEEDS YOU_

Samantha pulled herself back from a long way away, shaking her doldrums, not pretending to misunderstand the cryptic remark. "D.E.C.I.M.A.?"

NO. HE IS PROTECTED

"Harold is quite self-sufficient in all other things." Root continued her packing mechanically. The plane left in less than two hours and the traffic was heavy this afternoon. "Don't you agree? Why would he need us, in which case?"

YOU MUST GO TO HIM

Normally, Root never questioned HER instructions but today, she found herself more than reluctant to involve herself with Harold Finch again for some obscure reason she simply did not wish to analyze.

"Shouldn't we be concentrating on putting Samaritan out of business?" the young woman grasped at straws. "There won't be any need for any of us to concern ourselves with the commonplace if we don't find a way to.."

YOU MUST GO TO HIM

Root sighed heavily, having a decision to make. One she dreaded.

She understood that, to survive now, however..she must concern herself with two objectives. One: depleting the resources of the opposition and more importantly, finding a weakness in the System the enemy had created.

Slowly, painstakingly, under the supervision of the Machine, Root had established a workable Network of others, like herself..savvy in the language spoken by the existing Systems. Creative thinkers who were not limited by laws, ideologies or convention of thought.

An 'Underground' Resistance made up of the most innovative, 'out-of-the-box' thinkers around, who instinctively rebelled against, not only the Establishment and it's antiquated rules and methods..but any and all supposed 'Authority Figures'.

These fellow workers possessed an inbred contempt for the 'Powers That Be'. Young, disillusioned dissidents who were searching for another more progressive, enlightened 'Way'.

Not only 'Computer Geeks' like herself, but SHE had gathered the most brilliant minds from all aspects of society, amassing knowledge and skills.

_All with one objective in mind._

What that objective was, Root could only speculate at this time.

And even though many unanswered questions remained in her mind, she had to ask the inevitable.

_What was the alternative?_

Root had finally put her faith in someone..some _thing_ , other than herself.

She was struggling now, with her present role in the drama being played out.

She had become entangled with Harold Finch and his Worker Monkey some months back entirely by accident.

Fate had enmeshed her life with the Creator of this phenomenal 'Entity'.

Root had grown to reluctantly admire and respect Harold, much against her will and good judgment.

He was so unlike any other man she had encountered.

Through his eyes, she finally saw what she had become and surprisingly, she had not liked the portrait painted.

_Imagine her surprise._

While one part of her realized the necessity of retaining much of the qualities that had allowed her to survive all these years in such a harsh, unforgiving environment, another greater part..now felt regret and guilt over all she had done to others when it seemed a perfectly 'right and proper' way of life.. _before_.

Something deep inside was touched by the naiveté of Harold's genuine, empathic, honest and honorable- to- a- fault way of thinking.

Root had never come across another like him. Indeed, just the opposite. Humans were flawed.. _Bad Code._

At first, she had been intrigued by the intellect behind the glasses, playing a dangerous 'cat and mouse' game to lure him out into the open, even as far as risking her own life just on the off-chance, he might make an appearance.

Her ploy had worked brilliantly.

She had captured her prey! _The Creator himself_.

Those few short days of forced confinement had been interesting indeed.

Samantha had struggled so hard against the alien emotions churning inside her brain and heart.

Sadly, she had watched..and learned from the man. In spite of her determination not to allow any emotional involvement.

Harold Finch 's calm demeanor hardly ever altered even under the most trying of circumstances. She had tried to draw the man out but his mind was too orderly..too disciplined.

Even when she had impetuously and with malice of forethought, viciously sliced the man's palm wide open with a razor blade, just to get some sort of reaction from the guy..those odd, captivating eyes had only allowed a tiny measure of surprise and shock before quickly settling into quiet acceptance of what 'was'.

The slight intake of breath the man had offered had pleased the woman for she had desperately wanted to break the unshakable resolve Harold kept about himself throughout the ordeal she had set in motion.

But, something in those wide-set blue eyes had robbed her of any satisfaction the cruel act brought.

It was as if a bucket of cold ice water had been dashed over the perverse pleasure of the moment by whatever it was she had read in those damnable deep blue orbs that stared back at her so sedately composed.

She knew instinctively, from that moment on, that Harold Finch had known great pain in his life that he could so easily filter it away. Such a minor incident as having his palm sliced open by a slightly deranged antagonist was a mere trifle compared to all else he had suffered, apparently.

The incident was dismissed as easily as he would brush a fly from his face.

Harold Finch had suffered so much worse.

Root had read it in the craggily, expressionless face.

In that split second of 'contact', so much had passed between them.

Harold had such expressive eyes.

While his face remained inscrutably stoic, his manner reserved and quiet..those eyes gave each and every emotion away, if one knew how to read him.

Root had taken the time and effort to study and educate herself on the subject of Harold Finch.

Even in his weakened state, for he had refused her offer of food and any small, creature comfort she could think to supply..he had not, for one second, lost his composure or his inane sense of 'self'.

The man was honorable, conscientious and courageous. A completely gentle soul caught up in the mangled, nightmarish web of deceit and corruption that had become Samantha Grove's world.

Root understood the depths of depravity to which humans could sink. She wondered if Harold truly did.

That she excelled among such cretins did not speak well for her, she supposed.

Harold had stupid theories concerning his brethren. _Misguided, totally illogical hypotheses_ in Root's humble opinion.

' _Most people were good and decent, just hard working, 'nose-to-the-grindstone' sorts just going about their lives as best they could.'_

Root rolled her eyes just thinking of his words as they came back to haunt her.

' _Anyone could fall on hard times.' 'We all need a helping hand up from time to time…_ '

Such stupidity had turned her stomach. That such a brilliant mind could be so absolutely corrupted..defiled by such complete nonsense.

The world was not the idyllic place Harold wished it to be.

That he had instilled such a perverse ethic into his Creation sickened her to the core.

And yet.. _here she was_! Battling impossible odds right along with the Helper Monkey and Robot Girl.

Sometimes Samantha envied Shaw's inability to feel emotions.

Root could feel them, she merely had learned how to channel..to delegate the less important ones..the less productive.

* * *

 

* * *

"Is it wise, Miss Groves?" Harold Finch had not even bothered to check before opening his door wide, his hand having dropped away, inviting any trespasser into his new domain without any caution or predisposition on his part. "For us to be so openly gregarious?"

Samantha closed her mouth, her jaw having slackened a bit upon first sight of the man. She couldn't quite form an articulate reply to such a discordant s statement because she was too stunned by the change in the man, all of which she was attempting to assimilate in the brief moment of 'welcome' he had offered.

"I thought it was better to have as little contact as possible for a while." Finch clarified his remark, mistaking the woman's hesitation for incoherency. "To what do I owe this rather dubious pleasure?"

Root's brown eyes swept the man's disheveled appearance in something akin to awe. No vest..no impeccably pressed slacks, no tie..not even a stylishly tailored jacket.

She offered a slight gasp of shock. The man was barefoot.

His toes appeared out from under his rumbled grey pants. An equally questionable blue pin-striped shirt appeared as if it had not been changed in days and a slight hint of some sort of liquor clung to it's fabric.

The woman checked the empty hallway, her innate sense of survival always first and foremost. "Harold..may I come in?"

The man lifted a careless arm, motioning accordingly, turning slowly, making his way back into the darkened interior of the room.

Root noted his usual lop-sided gait was more pronounced and it looked as if he were having difficulty navigating the small area.

She shut the door, securing both latch and bolt, allowing her eyes to adjust to the cooler, darker atmosphere.

The odor of liquor was more prevailing once inside the room, her nose crinkling slightly. The brown eyes widened with alarm as they swept her new surroundings. The condition of the hotel room was appalling.

"..I thought you were at the house in Martha's Vineyard." SHE had provided a wonderful retreat for the man. Perhaps as a gift of sorts. A place of refuge and quiet, that Harold could refuel..rest and recoup from the harrowing times they had all just lived through.

"Well." The man sat heavily on the small black and white checked loveseat, his hands resting primly on his knees. He stared straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the hideous painting on the opposite wall. An artist's futuristic portrayal of what appeared, to Root..to be a gigantic lava lamp gone awry. "..I'm not."

Samantha took in his surroundings once again, standing carefully in the middle of the carnage, her hand clutching tightly to her Gucci purse.

The small table by the closed draped window housed a multitude of take- out containers, newspapers and empty whiskey bottles.

The woman stepped slowly across the ugly print of the worn carpet, searching for a place to sit.

The television's soft glare shed some light in the otherwise dark room.

A blonde female reporter was regaling Kim Kardashian's upcoming nuptials. The sound was off the set but the closed caption was on.

"Thanks, Harold." Root quipped to lighten her own mood if not the man's. "I _will_ have a seat." She took the one with the less clothes draped over the back, settling her slight frame into the hard wood carefully.

"I love these accommodations." She smiled prettily, her eyes bright and lively. "There is such a 'homey' feel to the place'. I totally approve."

Harold glanced around the room just as she had done. "Well, I've not had time to decorate."

"..So." she let his lack of manners slide, observing the man in what she hoped was a cheerful enough mode. "What's new with you?"

Those blue eyes shifted to her and he actually smiled back. "Not much..you?"

The easy exchange somehow chilled the woman.

"Oh, you know.." she carried on in the same vein however, keeping up appearances. "Running for my life from diabolically maniacal men who would like nothing better than to plant me six feet under." She straightened the arch of her back, drawing in a cleansing breath. "Got my hair done today..do you like it?"

She felt silly with such an odd give-and-take but he was responsive to a degree.

Harold glanced at the long, chestnut fluff that lay on her shoulders in soft, sultry waves. "I always have."

Root blinked her shock at the easily stated quip.

"I would offer you something but.." he picked up an empty bottle on the coffee table before him, shaking it slightly. "I seem to be all out."

"It's ok, I stole some of those tiny bottles off the plane." She quipped right back, still in shock, truth known. "We could go for some coffee if you like." She quickly took the chance offered. "I saw what might pass for a diner on the corner down the way."

"First and foremost.." Harold checked to confirm his theory. "I am not dressed for such an auspicious outing and secondly..I thought the Machine advised we were to make ourselves as inconspicuous as humanly possible for as long as it takes."

He arose slowly, wobbly..in search of something amid the debris which constituted his opened suitcase which sat on the small fold-out provided for such things. "Which could be a very, very…very long time, I am assuming."

"You underestimate HER, Harold." Root watched the man demolish the interior belongings of the suitcase even moreso than he already had.

To see such disorder in such an ordered life was more than alarming but Root felt an instant affinity with the man finally where before, she had always held him in something akin to reverence.

"Can I help?" she offered politely.

"..Oh." Harold stopped rummaging, his hands full of underwear and socks. "..I had a pack in here." He motioned. "Perhaps I've misplaced them."

The man continued his quest.

"Do you smoke, Harold?" Root was finding out new revelations, thrilled to see another side of the man.

She studied his unshaven face, the sunken eyes..the unsteady shake of his hands.

"I used to." The man's brows lifted in mild surprise as he raised. "Nasty habit but rather..soothing for all that." He went back to his aimless search, if only half-heartedly now. "I have recently rediscovered."

He left the suitcase for greener territory, broadening the mission to the dresser drawers upon which the television set was housed.

Root discretely placed the opened pack of Marlboros she had found under a pizza box into her purse. "I could tidy up." She offered surveying the room in open disdain. "Maybe we could locate them if some of 'Ground Zero' was cleared."

Finch pulled up short, mid-step, taking the time to survey his domain.

"Oh dear." He mumbled disheartened, finally seeing a little of what 'was'. His eyes swept his person mechanically, his expression taking on a rather alarmed astonishment. "..I..am in a rather dilapidated state, Miss Groves." His tone was sincere. "I do apologize."

Root sensed his confusion more than witnessed it, the man appearing lost and directionless.

Harold stood, silent and brooding, misplaced in a realm of his own making.

"..I don't suppose you have heard anything of.." the blue eyes sought her out, filled with wistful hope. "The others?"

Root read the vulnerability within, touched by it.

"Is there any..news?"

Samantha seized on his weakness. "There is and I have." She arose, briskly sitting her purse in the now empty seat. She discarded the light weight grey jacket with it's tailored waist and stylishly fashioned lapels, dusting the sides of the matching slacks with opened palms..she hung the jacket over the back of the already burdened chair.

"Suppose you go shower." She nodded minutely in the direction of the slightly ajar bathroom door. "We will go have breakfast at that quaint little café down the way, because I, for one..am famished! And then we'll discuss Worker Monkey and Bionic Woman.." she flashed an infectious smile. "Does that sound like a plan, Harold?"

The man hesitated, his manner still a little 'off'. "..Yes, Miss Groves." He nodded sedately, clearing his throat gently. "I..I think that will work, actually."

Root smiled happily, having folded her hands primly before her, awaiting his decision.

"Thank you."

"For what?" she was curious.

"..I'm not certain." He admitted vacantly. "..I'll only be a moment."

Root shrugged the concern away. "Take your time." She sized up the job before her, wondering where to start.

Harold disappeared into the bathroom closing the door quietly behind him. He had gathered a few articles of clothing before his exit.

The woman sighed heavily, sought the nearest trash container and got down to business.


	2. Ruminations

“You aren’t eating, Harold.” Root had long since noted the fact, her brow furrowed in open concern. “Now, how are you going to thwart the bad guys if you don’t keep up your strength?”

The man had been quiet throughout the entire time they had sat in the small booth of the non-descript diner.

“Not that I can blame you much.” The woman moved the over-cooked eggs around her plate with her fork, a slight grimace on the pretty face. “Ewww.”

Harold’s mouth quirked slightly before he lowered his head, once more falling into the doldrums which had so distressed the man of late.

Samantha was heartened to see the ‘almost’ smile however. She studied the man meticulously, her thoughts private.

“Harold, you can’t take the weight of the world on one set of shoulders.” She thought she had figured out the problem. “You did not necessitate any of what has gone down...technically.”

Harold offered her an oblique glance.   “Didn’t I?” his head had jerked up, the blue eyes flashing the old fire for an instant. “I do not concur, Miss Groves! I believe that is _exactly_ what I did and now..” he halted his tirade, swallowing hard, his enthusiasm waning considerably as the realization hit him.   “..People have been hurt.”

The thought seemed to deflate him entirely. “..A young, vital woman has been brutally cut down in her prime.” His voice shook noticeably. The man lowered his tone, leaning slightly closer. “Mr. Reese is, God knows where and Ms. Shaw is out there on her own and… _for what?!”_

He asked intensely, seeking an answer from any source available at this stage, for he had no answers.

Root’s eyes softened. “Detective Carter was fighting for what she believed in...to make the world a safer place for her son.” She reminded. “They all made the decision to stand beside you, Harold.”

“Is that how I explain Joslyn Carter’s death to her sixteen year old son?”

“There was always a possibility she would, one day...not come home.” Root reminded gently. “Such was the nature of the vocation she chose. Her son knew that.”

Harold shook his head, unable to accept such a simple solution to his problems.

Root sighed, sitting back on the worn vinyl of the booth.

_She clearly had her work cut out for her._

* * *

 

The snows had long since melted and the air was brisk but tolerable this early March day.

The sun shone down, filtering it’s cheerful rays through the still barren tree limbs.

Root was a good head shorter than Harold Finch but her booted heels brought her up to his height...almost. She matched her steps to his less directed ones.

She caught a whiff of his cologne, having moved closer at one point to allow other New Yorkers to pass on the sidewalk upon which they strolled.

The man stopped suddenly, his head lifting slightly.

Root followed his line of sight seeing nothing of any real interest but the usual sights of Central Park.

“I haven’t been outside for a while.” He remarked politely. “..It feels...rather refreshing.”

Harold liked the hustle and bustle of the city. He always looked upon New York as an entity unto itself.

The underbelly of a large Metropolis was like a heartbeat of sorts.

The rush of the multitude of its millions of citizens, going about their daily routines, like the blood flowing through veins, always moving…always in motion.

“The question is..” he continued, his head turned half way to catch her attention. “Should we be so conspicuously displayed?”

His eyes caught the glint of red from the traffic camera.

Root grinned, ignoring the surveillance equipment entirely. “We’re just one of millions, Harold.” She explained patiently. “Even if they pull us up on their little monitors, we will register as insignificant individuals in a virtual sea of insignificant individuals.”

The man mused openly. “A very intricate problem in logistics.” He lifted an impressed brow. “It has progressed beyond my expectations.”

“You have no idea, Harold.” Root beamed him a smile. “You _have_ to be a little proud of HER accomplishments! _Admit it_!”

He grew introverted for a long beat. “..It has limitations. Which could prove its downfall...and ours, eventually. Given time.”

Samantha smiled benignly, taking the man’s arm, resuming their steps. “Don’t be such a Gloomy Gus.” She nudged him playfully.   “Buy me a pretzel.”

The man shook his head, his expression comically askew, but in the end...he shrugged slightly, willingly allowing her to lead him to the vendor’s white van.

Root took her time, watching the man make his way through the few who had thought along similar lines.   She liked his build. His body moved so poetically stilted, yet somehow managed to emanate power and self-confidence even in his present mood.

The long grey coat he had donned was an expensive weave of wool and silk. It fit his slender frame to perfection, the bright red scarf adding a slight flare unique to the man’s style.

He appeared almost his old self but there was still clouds of darkness in the blue eyes.

Harold handed the small treat over to the gloved hands eagerly awaiting it’s arrival.   Root grinned impishly at the man, taking a hearty bite out of the salty indulgence.

A white, fluffy beret sat jauntily upon the side of Samantha’s head, a matching scarf swirled artfully about her neck.

She had chosen a blue, form-fitting jacket made of soft crushed leather.

“Aren’t you cold?” he wondered, for while her clothes were decidedly fashionable, he doubted they afforded much warmth.

“Are you offering to ‘warm’ me, Harold?” she chanced a rebuke but the man refused rise to the bait. “Don’t worry about me.   I come from hearty stock.”

“Do you?” he watched her pop yet another small morsel of the pretzel into her mouth, shaking his head when offered a piece.   “..You meticulously hid your vital information. I’m afraid I know very little of your background, Miss Groves.”

“How does it feel?” she teased. “..Ask me whatever you like, Harold. I’m an open book.” She spread her hands expressively.

“A very interesting read.” He had to admit, once again, following her docilely to a nearby park bench. “I would imagine.”

Hundreds of fellow New Yorkers passed hurrying to and fro, their lunch hour almost at an end.

The clock in the park showed twelve-fifty-two.

“You’ll turn my head with such flattery.” In truth, her heart had skipped a beat at the carelessly stated remark but then sped ahead rapidly.   She calmed her pulse deliberately.

It took a moment but the twinkle returned to the brown, creamy gaze.

“Doesn’t mean you have to stop trying, though.”

Finch took his time in formulating a response. It felt good to forget the heavy subjects which had been plaguing him of late, if only for a moment.

“..I placed a proper headstone on your young friend’s resting place.”

Root’s manner softened. “..I know you did.”

Harold shifted a questioning glance. “..I _am_ sorry for your loss.”

She nodded minutely, picking at the pretzel aimlessly, her head lowered, her tone softer. “..I know you are.”

The silence came but it was not uncomfortable for either individual.

“..I’m sorry too.” She needed to say it but hesitated uncertainly. “For..” her brow crinkled with confusion. “Well, I..” she cleared her throat gently. “..When we first met, I mean.”

This was proving far too difficult.

Root gave it up for loss. She had never been good with apologies. “Water under the proverbial bridge, I suppose.”   How could she expect or ask him to forgive or forget such a thing, anyway.

 _Best to let sleeping dogs lie_.

A thought suddenly emerged. She sought Harold Finch’s enigmatical gaze.  “Where’s your four-legged friend?”

“..Bear?” he somewhat snorted, amused for the workings of her mind. “He liked Martha’s Vineyard so well, I didn’t have the heart to tear him away. He took to the beach so.”

His voice had softened. He shifted slightly on the cold, hard surface of the bench.

“The caretaker took to him...instant rapport.” Finch continued. “I just needed...a few days.” His voice trailed off.

Root honored the stillness, waiting patiently.

“..It’s all my fault, you know.” Harold laughed derisively. “..Well, of course, _you_ know!” She had stated it plainly enough, warning him of the consequences of his folly.

“Oh, Harold.” She sighed heavily. “It’s not _anyone’s_ fault.” It was philosophized. “You didn’t create bad people. They just...exist.”

It was so simple really. Why couldn’t he see? “People are full of avarice and greed. They want the Power and the wealth.”

A thought occurred.   “You probably don’t get that. You’ve always had those commodities.”

He hadn’t but there was no need to argue the point at this stage.

“You stand in their way, that’s all.” She finished.

“My decisions have been flawed of late.” He stated angrily but the emotions weren’t directed toward the girl. “All of this could have been avoided were it not for my stupid, antiquated moral ethics!” his tone turned bitter. “ _All of it_! Had I heeded Mr. Reese’s advice...and _yours_!”

Root allowed the man to vent then sat quietly as he collected himself for which Harold was most grateful.

He felt deeply embarrassed and decidedly out-of-sorts having displayed his emotions so openly, especially to this woman but because of their past dealings, it was surprisingly easy to admit his fallacies, for some obscure reason.

“Don’t you get it, Harry?” Root chuckled musically. “It is _because_ of those stupid, antiquated moral ethics... that we are all so drawn to you.”

She arose, offering her hand. “Come on.” She stuffed her pretzel into her purse. “We’ll go see your Helper Monkey.” She wiggled her fingers good-naturedly, the brown eyes mellowing.   “That will cheer you up.”

The man ignored her hand but arose stiffly, the cold aching his joints.

She hooked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Hey, Harry..” she nuzzled his shoulder playfully. “Buy me a coke on the way out...hum?”

Finch twisted his mouth, his brow quirky slightly. He sighed mentally, accepting his lot in life.

He was going to meet John Reese. He would suffer much for such a privilege.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Pretzels, No Beer..

“Why exactly are we here, Miss Groves?” It was Finch’s turn to stand in the middle of a space, befuddled.   He took in his surroundings slowly, pivoting slightly as he went.

The fresh flowers on the hall table bespoke of a quiet elegance. The impeccably clean room was spacious and warm, with it’s Victorian furniture and Period lamps.

A magnificent view from the three mammoth glass windows to the East afforded one a feeling of opulence, verging on decadence.

“What’s the matter, Harry.” The young woman’s mood had gone from bad to worse over the period of the taxi ride to the hotel. “Never been alone with a woman in a strange hotel room before?”

He afforded her a cool glance.   “I do wish you would cease and desist with these rather juvenile remarks, Miss Groves.” The man’s nerves were raw these days, and her manner was not making it any easier to cope.   “They verge on the ludicrous, as I am certain you already are aware. Besides, that is a rather personal question.”

Root took no offense, easing her jacket off, the scarf following. She lay the articles on the brocade sofa.   “Is it ludicrous that I find you attractive, Harold? No secret there.” she lifted slightly amused brows.   “I’ve not been hiding the fact. You just refuse to acknowledge my existence. Shame on you for that, by the way.”

She pouted prettily for him.

“Firstly, I am old enough to be your Father and secondly, the very thought of such an unholy alliance between you and I, borders on the macabre.”

She giggled infectiously. “You say the sweetest things, Harold.”  

The woman picked up a neatly wrapped bundle of clothing, sealed in crisp, crinkly cellophane, crossing.   She handed the package over.

“While your sartorial splendor never ceases to amaze and delight a girl, I fear you would stick out like a sore thumb where we journey. A quick costume change is in order.”

“SHE chose these for you.” Root glanced over the articles as the man took over the burden. “Should keep you warm enough.. _ohhhhh!_ ” a particular piece had caught her eye.  

She allowed an approving gasp of suppressed excitement. “Harold! I’ve never seen you in jeans.” She looked the man up and down, enjoying his vexation which he was loathe to hide. “I hope they’re tight.”

Harold’s annoyance meter shot off the scale, made abundantly clear by the jerky movements of his gait and body language as he moved away from his adversary. “There is something terribly wrong with you.”

A grin erupted on the pretty face and the tip of the woman’s tongue fleetingly touched the top curve of her lip.

She watched him plop down on the large sectional, having lain the bundle of clothing aside.

Root grinned impishly, thrilled to have elicited such a response from the man. If nothing else, his mood had altered for the better from their first encounter, in her opinion.

“..Should I, eh..” she toyed with the buttons on her silk blouse. “Discretely disappear into the adjoining room or..” she compressed her full lips tightly to keep the smile off them.   She crinkled her pert nose. “Just ‘go for it’?”

Finch pulled his eyes away from the azure blue blouse but more so the soft, sloping curve of her young breasts, truly pissed that he had noted such a thing.

“You clearly lacked sufficient guidance growing up.” He advised tersely. “But, had _I been_ one of your Parental Units, I would have turned you over the proverbial knee on a daily..nay, _hourly_ basis, I believe.”

He jerked his head in the direction of the slightly ajar door, his hand gesturing with a short, succinct motion.

The dark brown eyes danced with something he would rather not analyze suddenly. She crossed obedient, having retrieved her own neatly wrapped bundle of clothing from the sofa, careful to make a wide berth around the sullen individual who’s eyes followed her every move.

When she was a safe enough distance away, she took her parting shot though. “I wouldn’t mind you spanking me at all, Harold.” She lifted innocent eyes, halting her trek to the other room.   “Not at all! If that’s what you’re into, I mean.”

“Do not tempt Fate, Miss Groves.” The man’s look could have frozen over the Northern tundra.   “I give fair warning.”

She pursed her lips, purring her approval before slinking into the posh sitting area of her bedroom. She winked more than suggestively, her hand on the frame of the door.   “Gonna leave the door open..just in case you change your mind.”

Finch turned his attention back to the articles on the coffee table, holding his tongue..just.

When she had made her exit, he breathed a little easier, taking the time to examine the package beside him.

Black leather boots topped the pile, a sage green Irish cable sweater under those with a matching long-sleeved shirt, further down.

The man sighed, arising slowly, discarding his coat.

He chanced a quick check to the still opened door to his right.   He went in search of a proper changing arena, his thoughts a little peeved still.

What was in that woman’s head anyway?

Still, she was the means to an end. One he desperately wished to materialize.

He would suffer what he must.

* * *

 

Mr. Reese!” Harold’s smile was welcoming and genuine as he held out his hand for the other man, then encompassing the cold, hardy shake, laying his free palm over John Reese’s grip.   “It is so good to see you.” Harold lay his free hand on John’s shoulder, his fingers tightening reassuringly on the honed muscles offering a reassuring squeeze.

“Harold!” Reese could not remember the last time he smiled but he was doing so now, the feel of the strong grip and warm palm a soothing balm to his tortured soul.   “How did you..”

Root stepped into view answering all of the younger man’s questions to a point.   He cast a shadowed glance at Harold Finch.

“She knew where to find you.” Harold answered the unasked inquiry.

Reese glanced around their surroundings, indicating they should find a more secure place to speak.

Harold gladly followed the man’s lead and in moments, they were sheltered behind a long row of stacked semi-truck beds.

“Should you be here?” was John’s first concern. “I thought..”

“She assures me, all is well.” Harold spared Root a gaze.   “How have you been. Have you heard anything of Ms. Shaw?”

“No.” John shook his head. “She’s fine, Harold. Shaw knows how to ‘blend’. But, what about you?” the man sought the thinned face anxiously. “Where’s Bear?”

Harold spared a smile. “He’s well and happy. Is there somewhere we can speak? In length?”

John searched in the pockets of his heavy plaid vest for something he wasn’t going to find.

Root handed over a pen and small pad.

John hastily wrote his new address, handing it over.   “I’ll be there for a while if nothing goes down.”

Harold took the time to examine his friend. “You look..well, Mr. Reese.” It was so good to know the young man was seemingly healthy and sound.   “The work seems to agree with you.”

John had never felt so good in his life, truth told..physically.   “The Shipyards will either kill you or make a man of you, they say.”

The silence came.

“..Are _you_ alright, Harold?” Reese was concerned. The man was haggard looking, worn and drawn.

“You know, Harold.” Root chimed in, having patiently allowed the male bonding time.   “ _This too shall pass_ , and you look good enough to eat in those jeans, so..lighten up you two, ok? You’re bringing me down!”

John Reese’s face was more than comical for he had definitely picked up on the ‘jean’ remark.

“Ignore her, Mr. Reese. As I have the entire day!” Harold threw the woman a glacial stare.   “She seems to be in a particularly loathsome mood today.”

Reese looked from Root’s guileless blink to Harold’s bristling manner.

“..Ok.” the man shrugged haplessly. “So, what’s the plan? Where do we go from here?”

It was enough for Harold Finch just to know this man was safe and functioning. Why he had expected less, he had no clue.

“I’ll think of something, Mr. Reese.” Harold now had a new lease on life, his nod an assured one.   “We shall discuss it this evening, then?” he held up the piece of hastily scrawled paper.

“Get yourself some Pizza, Harold.” John advised, his own mood ten thousand times better as well.   “And a chocolate malt..it will solve any problem in the entire Universe.”

Harold smiled, his manner quietly content.   “It used to, Mr. Reese.” He remembered.

“Nothing has changed, Harold.” Reese’s eyes held the other man’s easily, a confidence showing out of the dark blue depths.   “Just a little sit-back, is all. We’ve gotten through worse.”

Harold nodded silently.

He watched John Reese walk away, the man offering one big grin over his shoulder.

The lanky steps halted abruptly, the tall man hesitating, slowly turning back, John’s expression a bemused one. “..You _will_ show up.” He needed confirmation. “Right?”

“Yes, of course Mr. Reese.” Harold’s tone was warmly reassuring.

John’s grin returned as he walked away.

Root shifted her gaze, studying Harold’s impassable features meticulously.   “That pizza sounds amazing. You haven’t fed me since breakfast.”

“I bought you a pretzel and coke.” He deadpanned, even Root not affecting him at this exact moment, his spirits were so high although one would never know it from his stoic expression.

“You have more money than God.” She bitched. “You begrudge me a pretzel??”

“And a coke…they have flagged my accounts.”

“Oh, like you don’t have off-shore accounts!” she disdained.   “Besides, Harry..I always have a plan.”

The man looked at her sharply.  It was one of his favorite quotes, after all.

“Come on _..I’ll_ buy.” The woman cast him a wry smile. She hooked her hand into the crook of his arm which he instantly ‘unhooked’.

Root giggled, skipping happily along after his rapidly retreating form. The man’s posture was different, his gait holding a lightness that was not there before.

Root smiled to herself. SHE would be happy with their progress.

“I already knew his address, Harold.” She could not resist one last parting shot. “You could have just asked.”

The man stopped short, turned, threw her a nondescript glare.   Harold turned back, collecting himself.

He reluctantly extended his arm, crooked and waiting.

The woman's face beamed her joy as she rushed quickly, in the end, looping her arm tightly through the pre-offered gesture, snuggling happily into the sleeve of the heavy work jacket Finch had donned.

 

 


	4. Safety In Numbers

John Reese was anxious. Well, as anxious as a man like him could ever be.

He crossed the worn linoleum floor with its faded geometric design to check out the elongated fourth floor window yet again.

The street below was its usual colorful self, several winos dotting the corners and a few alleyways as far down as John could see. Some walked their slow, careful trek, a little lop-sided, some slouched, braced against the world’s harshness.

A few more unsavory types stood gathered in small, clustered groups doing what unsavory types did, John supposed.

He had never given it much thought, in truth.

He was known in this neighborhood now, this afternoon, after work, having spoken quietly to a few of the ‘Movers and Shakers’ here in this ‘colorful’ place.

He gave mild warning that Harold, his very good friend, would be stopping by this evening, so no ‘unsavory’ shenanigans should be attempted by any of the ‘colorful’ inhabitants of this area.

He didn’t mention the woman he knew as ‘Root’, for two reasons, the foremost being, he hoped she wouldn’t show up but secondly, John figured if any mishap occurred, these guys could just look out for themselves where she was concerned.

When first he arrived, there had been a few ‘incident’s where John was forced to establish his rightful place in the sector and since then, there had been no further need to do so.

Molly, the reigning ‘Lady-of-the-Evening’ who habitually took up her position on the corner of 4th Street and Wylie Ave come nightfall, had taken to referring to John Reese as ‘Bad Leroy Brown’..or on a few special occasions, ‘Tree Top Lover.’

John took it as a compliment of sorts and he thought, perhaps, Molly had meant it kindly, so he would smile and walk away, none the less affected.

John’s dark blue eyes scanned the skies. He hoped the weather wasn’t too cold for Harold’s joints. He knew the older man often complained, well..no, not complained. ‘Made mention’ of the aches and pains, damp, cold places or inclement weather brought.

He kicked himself for not having suggested a more suitable meeting place.

John glanced back to his ‘home’. It was quite a let down from the one Harold had provided. But the man felt an affinity with those of a less fortunate nature, having gravitated to the disenfranchised after the big shake-up of months before.

John had held out hope that sooner or later, Harold would get back in touch. He had bided his time and waited it out.

Years of military surveillance assignments had taught him patience and due diligence.

His more recent stint on the docks had honed his body to a razor sharp edge and the brisk sea air had cleared the cobwebs from his brain.

He had not realized how tired he had been. Assignment after assignment had taken its toll but he felt rejuvenated now, especially since having seen Harold Finch.

John had worked hard to such an end, wanting to be in tip-top shape both mentally and physically if.. ‘ _when’_ Harold arrived on scene.

For the first week, the young man had floundered a bit, torn from his Mentor and advisor so abruptly, but soon enough John’s wits gathered and he began to map out his strategy.

He paused in his ruminations, his mind flitting back to the present.

The man checked the refrigerator again, the small apartment size appliance holding little except a 12-pack of Bud, a well- chilled bottle of Harold’s preferred stock which had taken three cab rides ‘uptown’ to secure.

John put the seltzer water to the side over by the 24 pack of Evian water.

Wishing to be the consummate Host, emulating Harold Finch as best he could on such short notice, John had stocked the discolored kitchen cabinets with pretzels and chips, _the good kind_..some fancy ass crackers that he had always enjoyed stealing from Finch at the Library and two different kinds of cheese-in-a-can.

He knew that Harold hadn’t really minded that he would habitually pop two or three of the delicious treats into his mouth on occasion but the guy had pretended to ‘mind’ which both amused and tickled John Reese.

Finch especially would offer a very disgruntled aside when Reese would slip Bear a few crackers as well.

‘Mr. Reese..we do _not_ feed him table scraps!’ Harold would always admonish.

John and Bear would then share a snicker or two at Finch’s expense.

John missed those days and the Library, nor would he ever forgive or forget those that forced him and Harold out of their chosen way of life.

Recriminations were on the horizon and John felt exhilarated by the thought.

He returned to the window, his eyes anxiously scanning for a figure he did not see.

Still, it was early. There had been no set ‘time’ established for the meeting.

John went back to his busy work.

He stopped mid-stride, his eyes noting the shabby interior or the two small rooms.   He flicked the blue and red plaid sofa over by the North wall, a grimace pulling at his mouth.

He had never actually set on it, preferring to use one of the kitchen chairs or the twin bed if he sat at all.

He had established a routine. After work, he stopped at the local deli for his ‘dinner’, ate..exercised, showered then bed.

The cycle all began again with the sun’s rising.

Once or twice, he had deviated from the ‘norm’, stopping in the bar which sat directly across from his ‘hotel’.

The ancient red brick building was just about on Its last legs. There was talk that soon, the entire district would be razed, making way for newer, more stylish accommodations.

But not for the people who lived here now.

The old way of life in New York was rapidly disappearing.

Some..most, he imagined, would never miss it but John liked this place with its honest people.   ‘Honest’, for the most part, of course. Every neighborhood had its dissidents.

But for the most part, it was comprised of people who had grown up in the same twelve block radius with the little ‘Mom and Pop’ establishments. Local bars and diners whose interior design dated back to the ‘Fifties’.

Pockets of Ethnicities where the ‘Gangs’ were held at bay by tough old WWII vets who refused to allow punk ass kids to invade their territories.

Shop owners who were just a little more savvy, more tenaciously zealous in nature.

Those men were rapidly aging, dying off and soon, if the High-rises’ didn’t come, the Gangs would, because there would no longer be anyone to stop them.

But for the most part, peace and a tentative harmony reigned for the time being between the past and the future.

Reese checked the kettle for the fourth time to make certain the water was still hot and seething.   He had bought Finch’s Sencha Green Tea and a couple of nicer cups without the chips and cracks of the ones he had found lounging inside the cupboards upon his arrival.

Which had been good enough for him but not for his friend.

Not that Harold Finch was a snob.     _He wasn’t!_ The guy could blend with the high and low of society with equal graciousness and civility.

John’s thoughts were interrupted. He exasperated a slight grunt, crossing briskly, his long strides landing him within a few feet of the ugly couch.

His fist banged decisively on the paper-thin wall, several meaningful ‘pounds’.

The loud shouting and clatter of bric-a-brac ceased immediately.

The couple in apartment 3-C had a habit of discussing issues a little more rambunctiously than they should, in Reese’s humble opinion.

Reese had visited the guy on his first night’s stay to explain his point of view.

After a black eye, two broken ribs, a fractured tibia and several cuts and numerous bruises, the guy finally saw it Reese’s way.

Since then, a few well- placed ‘taps’ on the adjoining wall would bring peace and harmony again..until the next time.

John straightened the picture situated over the couch, observing the pencil drawing of some Parisian scene.

He knew it was ‘Paris’ because the Eiffel Tower was centered and foremost in the canvas.

You could pick these prints up at any Dollar General these days but Paris held a warm spot in Reese’s jaded memories, so he liked the picture personally.

He doubted it would meet Finch’s exacting standards, of course.

The thought brought a slight smile to the man’s sensual lips.

John finally sat, taking his usual seat at the small dining table centered over by the two-set panes of windows that faced the street below.

He arose swiftly, reminded of a task he had not attended to.   The man quickly changed the positions of the chairs, replacing the one that slightly wobbled with a more study one for Harold to utilize.

Once satisfied, he cautiously sat back down in the less than stable one, deciding to wait it out now.

His eyes caught the salt and pepper shakers.

They weren’t lined up just right. John corrected the oversight then took a last sweep of the room.

The dark mahogany end table sat by the couch, it’s one drawer minus a handle.

The kitchen sink was one of those old porcelain numbers, pot-marked with stains but it still served its purpose.

Reese sighed mentally.

He definitely should have chosen a better place in which to reacquaint himself with Harold Finch.

 

* * *

 

“Where are you going?” Harold had stopped his steps, noting the absence of companionship. Where once, Samantha Groves had been strolling by his side, there now was an empty space.

He had searched for the woman, his mind having been preoccupied by the ‘colorful’ atmosphere surrounding him.

“I thought I would give you and ‘John of the Jungle’ a few moments alone.” Root had pulled up short, having found a logical excuse to make her planned exit.   “Why, Harold?” she blinded flirtatious lashes. “Are you concerned for my welfare?”

The ‘Disney Princess’ voice and large innocent eyes belied the diabolically fiendish workings of such a brilliant but Machiavellian mind.

“More theirs, Miss Groves!” the man jerked his hand in the direction of a few of the more flamboyant characters with now surrounded them. Harold had whispered the harsh rejoinder, stepping the few spaces needed to confide more privately.   “That is out of the question, at any rate.” He confided another thing, most succinctly.   “You cannot be on your own in such a ..problematic place!”

Root held her smile. “Don’t you worry, Harold.” She leaned just as close as he had done to continue their ‘private’ talk, enjoying the closeness despite his apparent mood.   “I’m packin.” She patted her purse lovingly, those dark eyes teasing him relentlessly.

“What a shock!” his expression said differently.   “Never-the-less..I insist you stay with me.”

“Are _you_ packin?” she quipped playfully, ready to be impressed, the creamy brown eyes dropped meaningfully to the appropriate area, then lifted with an admiring gleam.

His tone altered as he realized, he really had no leverage to force her do so.   “.. _Please_.” he amended quietly.

“Oh, Harold.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm, letting the guy off the hook.  “Tall, Dark and Dense would appreciate my making myself scarce for a while..we both know that.”

The man could find no argument good enough to present, but he disliked the fact tremendously.

“And it’s sweet of you to concern yourself with my welfare but it’s ok.” She reassured evenly.   “ _Really_! I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m alone remember.”

Finch shook his head woefully. “I am _not_ leaving you here.”

“You’re so cute when you’re dispassionate.” Root sighed happily. “What if I duck in here and you and ‘The Dark Knight’ pick me up in ..” she consulted her watch.   “Oh, say..thirty minutes.”  

Harold glanced to the establishment.   It was a small restaurant. He could see several couples inside, enjoying dinner.  

“I’ll have a glass of wine and plan my next seduction attempt.” The woman sweetened the pot.   “Then you can come buy me dinner, then I’ll ply you with spirits until you’re in a more receptive mood.”

The man sighed more than heavily, torn.

“What can happen?” she debated artfully.   “There are twenty people inside.”

Finch bit the inside of his cheek, his better instincts telling him to refuse.

“Go speak to your friend, Harold.” Root advised gently. “I promise to be a good little girl until..later tonight.” She held up ‘Scout’s Honor’ fingers.

Harold ignored the fact that he could see her reflection in the window of the diner. The slender fingers were crossed, indicating, she was, of course.. lying.  

“But after midnight..all bets are off.” Samantha swayed back and forth ever so blithely. “I give fair warning.”

The man swallowed his doubts and fears, glancing once more to the less than reputable people milling around. Despite Samantha Groves pennant for falsehoods, he had his duty.

“Those jeans really are nice.” She glanced him over approvingly. The man’s eyes finally hardened for she had, in Harold’s world, stepped over the line… yet again.

“Are you going ‘commando’, Harry?”

“Why don’t you tell me, Ms. Groves.” His tone held an acerbic bite. The man stalked off down the darkened street.

Samantha held her smile for his mood, her eyes, once again dropping to the man’s arresting posterior, lingering boldly. She finally turned, gingerly taking the four steps down into the basement establishment.

 


	5. Partners In Crime

Harold Finch stood before the door facing, his eyes registering the number embossed in a faded metallic gold: 4-C.

His mouth quirked slightly. Had John Reese taken this particular room for sentimental reasons? Although technically, the other instance where Harold had found himself grappling with the same number, although, granted it was an airline seat assignment at that time.

They spoke on the phone daily, and yet, in that instance, John had never seemed so out of reach.   The young man had been so distant in more ways than one.

They had all been devastated by Jocelyn Carter’s death which had affected Reese in particular and Harold most deeply..irrevocably, in truth.

Harold knocked firmly on the hard wood surface. Seconds later, the familiar, handsome features of his friend appeared, portal thrown wide.

“Harold!” John smiled his welcome. “Have any trouble finding the place?” Reese stepped aside, allowing the man’s entrance.

“No.” Harold shuffled in, moving awkwardly into an unfamiliar space, taking in his surroundings with a quick, dismissing   glance. “But I spent a small fortune in taxi fare arriving at this quaint sector of the city, Mr. Reese.”

“Want me to reimburse you for the trouble?”

“I am simply stating, if our mutual antagonists were following,” Finch crossed to the kitchen table, placing a small black box which he had extracted from his coat pocket, unto the surface of the wood. “At least we very likely, put a serious dent in their budget for this fiscal period.”

John’s interest was more focused elsewhere. “That’s new.”

“I haven’t been entirely idle these past few months, Mr. Reese.” Harold was pleased he could report the fact. His melancholy had set in only in the past few weeks.  “This gadget will block any and all listening equipment’s frequency waves for a short time.” He nodded to the ‘gadget’.   “We may speak freely for the time being.”

“I meant..” Reese nodded in the direction needed. “The cane.”

Harold seemed rather deflated, noting the object in his hand. “..Oh.” he shook his head jerkily, a little annoyed Reese had ruined his ‘moment’.   “At first I was most reluctant to make use of _any_ sort of assistance aid but now..I just see this..” he held the cane aloft. “As a fashion statement.”

“Yeah.” Reese teased to put the man more at ease. “If you’re a Pimp.”

“Very droll, Mr. Reese.” Surprisingly, Harold relaxed, the tenseness leaving his body. “I see your Sophomoric sense-of-humor still runs rampant.” He spared the man a stern glance. “Still, it is good to see you are well and functioning.”

“Did you expect less?”

Harold had feared the man might fall back into his ways of old. “Not at all. Simply making polite conversation.”

 John Reese’s eyes narrowed slightly, full well knowing what Finch had been expecting. Reese cleared his throat gently.

“Where’s your Stalker-Chick?” Reese thought he better check, even though Harold seemed much more resigned to ‘Root’s’ presence these days. Much more so than Reese, himself.

Harold hesitated. “A good question.” He didn’t elaborate, however. “We have much to discuss, Mr. Reese, if you are still willing to continue our dubious association, that is..of course.” He inclined his head slightly out of deference.

“I don’t walk off the job, Harold.” Reese stated for the record. “Not one I like, at least. So..want some tea?”

Harold held his smile, very pleased by the response.

“I got pretzels.”

Finch’s mouth twitched slightly.   “Miss Groves will be so pleased.”

John’s face fell. “So..she’s still hangin around, huh.”

“She is discretely allowing us a few moments.” Harold nodded minutely, taking the chair John offered.

The young man also helped the older with Harold’s coat before the ritual ended.

Reese hung the object over the back of another kitchen chair. “Crackers?” he checked with his Boss.   “I got the ones’ Bear likes.”

Finch realized the pleasantries were John’s way of, not only attempting civility but the man was actually taking a stab at being a good ‘Host’.

It meant a great deal that John would put forth such an effort because Harold knew, it would not be afforded just anyone.

He felt honored, truth told.

“I got donuts.”

Finch chuckled lowly. “As I said..Miss Groves will be most appreciative of your efforts. He put his cane aside absently, leaning it against the edge of the table. The carved head with the silver inlay shined brightly under the low-wattage over-head lamp that hung above the table.

“To possess such a petite frame, that woman has the appetite of a full grown lumberjack.” Harold’s face registered confusion.   “I don’t know where she puts it all!”

“And have you noticed, Harold?” It was Reese’s turn to be amused. He sat the steaming cup and saucer before the man along with a spoon.

“That she eats me out of house and home?” it was assured haughtily. “Yes, Mr. Reese..I have!”

“I meant..” John sat in the opposite chair, his arm lain along the top of the table. “..Have you noticed..her figure.”

Harold’s face reddened a bit his eyes flicking with open irritation. “For goodness sake..don’t _you_ start!” it was strongly insisted. “I have had to suffer through…” the tirade was halted abruptly. “Never mind! Suffice to say, there has been enough talk of Samantha Groves for a spell. We have much more important matters on our schedule, I assure you.”

Reese was willing to move on.   “So..you invented this little device.” He fingered the black box, liking the sleek feel of the plastic casing.

“I ..tweaked it. It actually is in the early stages of development at M.I.T. but,” he dismissed the feat accomplished with his usual self-depreciating wave of an elegant hand.   “It will serve our purpose for a time. We should vacate the area in a while however, even though.”

Harold leaned closer staring at the box just as Reese was now doing.   “I have planted several of these devices throughout the City.”

Reese sensed a lot of techno-babble was forthcoming but he waited it out patiently because it was great to see the old spark of fire in Harold’s eyes.

“The Machine.. _theirs_..not our’s.” Harold permitted a tiny smile of triumph.   “Will think, hopefully…that it represents ‘Dead Zones’ with-in any sector scanned and chalk it up to Naturally occurring phenomenon.”

Reese ‘hoped’ as much as well.

“I relocate the boxes habitually.” The Computer Genius continued. “Samaritan, to date, has not sent out any of its Minions to investigate, at least.”

“So, what else have you been up to besides..” Reese motioned to the box.

“I’m pleased you inquired.” Harold seemed more than that but the fire in his eyes died a natural death, a discrete knock at the door alerting them to ‘visitors’.

Reese was up, weapon drawn, his tall frame crossing to the side of the hardwood door, Glock aimed and steadily trained.

Finch had tensed somewhat, swiveling about, attention directed and focused as well.

“Strip-O-Gram!” Root’s Disney-like Princess voice filtered through the thick wood.

Harold exchanged apologetic glances with John Reese.

The man dropped his arm, his shoulders sagging with open despair.

Harold attempted a reassuring expression but Reese was having none of it, preferring to sulk instead.

“I am almost inclined to allow you ‘knee-cap’ her, Mr. Reese.” Harold placated further. He returned to the solace of his tea, his tone a wistful one. “She has been particularly troublesome of late.”

Reese’s face crinkled, a quick grin bursting forth on the ruggedly handsome features but he was all business when he finally opened the door.

The brown eyes observed him expectantly. Root held up a bottle of wine.   “I come bearing gifts.”

“So did the Trojans and look how that turned out.” John stepped aside however, making way, for the woman’s hands were full of two huge boxes as well.

“How you paint me, John.” Samantha chided pertly as she passed.

She sat the boxes down on the table, seeking the older man out. “All veggies with pineapple for you, Harold.” She sat the box aside. “The ever popular but _oh so mundane and ordinary_ , ‘pepperoni’ for our resident Neanderthal.”  

She smiled sweetly over to a brooding John Reese.   “Plates, John?”

The man jerked his head in the needed direction.

Harold sighed, sensing the tension emanating from the other man. He sipped his tea delicately for the liquid was hot. “We really do not have time for these pleasantries, Miss Groves.”

John kinda hoped they could find some because the smell of the food made his empty stomach growl. He glanced to the closed boxes longingly.

Root rummaged through cabinets and drawers. “Napkins, John?” she inquired pleasantly, having found only empty spaces.

John was at a loss. _He hadn’t ever needed no stinkin napkins before_ , his expression saying as much.

“Harold,” Root continued her futile search, nonplussed by Reese’s uncooperative attitude. “We haven’t had a bite since lunch. We must keep up our energy.” She halted her search, scratching her pretty head, aimlessly adrift in the sea which constituted John Reese’s empty utensil drawer.

“Ok, John.” She lifted empty hands. “I give up! _Where’s Waldo_?”

Reese arose, sighing more than heavily, stomped across the floor, retrieved the ‘plates’ slamming them into the woman’s chest as he retraced his steps back to his former position.

“Oh!” Root accepted the product graciously, eyeing the Styrofoam ‘dishes’ with mock alarm. “Are these the biodegradable ones, John?”

The man in question threw yet another nondescript glare. Who knew Harold would be needing plates?

“I hope you bought the matching Solo cups!” it was teased.

“Give it a rest, Miss Groves.” Harold was more than peeved by her constant needling of John Reese. “We have more important matters upon our proverbial ‘plates’..” he quoted with his fingers. “Than Mr. Reese’s choice of dinnerware.”

“Always the punster.” Root took no offense. “You’re just grumpy because you haven’t eaten yet.”

Harold closed his eyes, shaking his head woefully. He lifted a weary hand. “Please, Mr. Reese..do not stand on ceremony.”

Reese had the pepperoni box over, opened and a slice in his mouth before Harold had finished the sentence.

Root threw the ‘plates’ onto a convenient counter top, joining the men. John pushed the other box in her direction, starting on his second piece of pizza.

Harold had tried to arise swiftly enough to offer the gentlemanly gesture of assisting a lady with her chair but Samantha Groves was apparently not accustomed to such magnanimous actions.

Her expression alerted the older man that she did, indeed, acknowledge his efforts, however, her expression soft for him.

He reseated himself, an irritated scowl lacing his intelligent brow, all the same.

A loud thudding interrupted the peace of the moment.

John Reese sighed mentally, arising, stalking across the room, his expression a thunderously black one, although, he still had a piece of pizza in his left hand.

The man thumped the wall viciously with his free hand, instantly quieting the ruckus that had erupted from the neighboring room.

Harold exchanged looks with his table companion, one very tolerant and the other rather tickled.

Root sat up from her relaxed position of leg drawn up comfortably in the chair.   "John, would you like me to go speak to them on your behalf?"

Finch chastised the woman with a severe,  "Eat your pizza, Miss Groves!"   he inhaled a calming breath.

“I would strongly suggest we complete this nutritional repast as quickly as possible, thereby taking this efficacious meeting to a more acceptable arena, people!”

Root leaned in, her nose crinkling adorably. “I love it when he talks dirty.”

Reese was hard pressed not to laugh right in Harold’s apocalyptic face.

* * *

 

 

 “So you see.” Harold walked slowly, his steps without any real direction, truth told.   “The Machine is making good inroads into a workable solution.”

He had explained all Root had supplied concerning exactly what measures had been taken to attempt to halt the opposition’s advancement. “But I think another approach might also garner us a productive means by which to infiltrate the ‘Enemy Camp’, so to speak.”

Root had forgone her usual quips for the past half-hour while Harold spoke at length on many different aspects of the one problem facing them.

“It is a decidedly more dangerous one, of course.” The man continued.

The night air was a little cool. The Park was filled with tourists and the usual New York crowd.

Most benches were taken, the Greyshot Arch looming in the distance.

“’Danger’ is your middle name, isn’t it John?” Root leaned slightly, having taken Harold’s arm upon the start of the stroll.

“You want to know the name I use for _you?_ ” the man retorted.

“Children, _please.”_ Harold warned. “I am not afraid to use this.” He lifted his cane slightly to signify his meaning.

“Ohh..” Root shivered playfully in mock excitement, snuggling to the man’s shoulder.

He looked at her slightly askew but otherwise, returned to the topic at hand.

John Reese on the other hand, felt decidedly uncomfortable with this new aspect of his friends relationship with his former arch enemy.

Former in the sense, Finch seemed all too complacent with his past Captors unhealthy attachment.

He would speak to Harold later on the matter. They had other priorities at present.

“Dangerous for who, Harold.” John wanted to return to the topic as well.   “It’s one thing for me to hit the Front lines but where is the need to put yourself in harm’s way?”

“Greatly appreciated, Mr. Reese.” Harold’s clip reply filled the night air. “But I do not ask my friends to do less than I, myself.”

“Let’s all just face facts, Harold.” Root put it on the line. “without you, _there is no opposition_. Even SHE has informed me, it’s only a matter of time before Samaritan figures a way around the cloaking device SHE has thrown over her ‘worker bees’.

She consulted both men. “The rest of us are hiding out, hoping _you_ will come up with a way out of the mess we find ourselves in before our time runs out.”

“Our window of opportunity is shrinking rapidly.” She finished.

“I realize that.” Harold stated succinctly.

_I KNEW HE WOULD_

Root self-consciously touched her lobe, tilting her head a bit.

“Then share this wondrous plan, Harold, please.”

_NOT HERE_

“Not here, Miss Groves.” Harold echoed his Creation’s warning. “..Not here.”

* * *

 

 The place smelled of stale air and odors Root felt was best left to the imagination.

She steered clear of the slimy walls, staying very close to Harold Finch’s sturdy frame.

John Reese walked through the filth and grime of these underground sewers as if they were his second home.

They reached the chamber which widened out into a gigantic arch. Root glanced upward, amazed at the height of the structure they now found themselves within.

“Harold, you always take me to the nicest places.”

“The walls are lined with lead.” Reese stated lazily.   “this section used to be used by the subway workers when they were testing the strength of their blasting material.”

“You are just a wealth of weird information, John.” Root moved closer to Harold because something brushed past her foot.   She clutched the man’s biceps for dear life, trying to be all Harold would expect of her but frankly, just wanting out of the darkness and grime.

“We can speak safely here.” Just to make certain, Harold had placed one of his new boxes close by.   He then proceeded to explain his ‘plan’ to the others.

“Harold!” Root was more than alarmed. “You can’t be serious!” she cringed at the very thought.   “You want HER to interface with Samaritan?” the girl was more than appalled. “That would mean they would have access to every piece of data SHE possesses!”

“And vise-versa, Miss Groves.” Harold patiently expounded. “The only difference between my System and theirs is..Samaritan has a more extensive database. Once interfaced, our system will have access to those Servers as well.”

“Unless their firewalls are ‘hack’ proof.” This, coming from one of Root’s caliber, troubled John a tad, were he honest with himself but he trusted Finch explicitly.

Harold’s face held the old confidence, verging on arrogance. “I doubt that very much, Miss Groves. Even you reminded me..any System can be breeched given enough time.”

“SHE will only have milli-seconds before Samaritan infiltrates her entire infra-structure.”

“It is all _It_ will need.” Harold debated artfully. “You are under the mistaken misconception that their System is more sophisticated than the one I devised. I assure you..” Harold shook his head minutely. “ _It is not!”_

John Reese held his amusement. _This was Harold Finch at his best!_

“All modesty aside, there are.. _were_ only two men capable of designing anything on the level of the project we all undertook.” Harold disliked such boastful meanderings but to make his proposal work, his ‘disciples’ had to believe.  

“Alas, both Systems had fatal flaws.” He had known from Day One of these other concepts. “We all worked closely with each other. Scientists build on each other’s mistakes. I am no man of Science but I did understand the simple Laws of Physics and Mechanics.”

An understatement there, Reese imagined.

“Which is exactly why the others failed.” Harold had tried to explain that to his two colleagues at the time.   “Egos clashed and friendships fell apart. I truly regret that time and my behavior.”

He quieted, old memories stirred.   “I am a different man, I hope..today.” he lifted haunted eyes.   “A better man, I trust.”

He waved the issue aside.   “Samaritan can be breeched. And all the Machine needs is a greater power source than it has at present to equal the other Machine.”

Root considered the logistics of such an enormous undertaking. “..Say you are correct..”

_HE IS_

Root was given pause for thought. “..Where do we locate this illustrious Power Source, Harold?” she held her arms wide, the problem seeming insurmountable to her.

“Maybe we can run a line to Con Edison.” Reese stated quietly.

“Perhaps..in a manner of speaking, Mr. Reese.” Finch found the statement profound, a wry smile erupting on the angular face. “We just might do that. You have hit upon the solution!”

 

 


	6. Conjecture and Coffee

Harold tensed involuntarily even though he knew the identity of the new arrival outside his current dwelling.

He gave Bear a scolding glance on his way to the front area. The dog lay happily content on its soft bed, the big brown eyes watching as Harold passed but once the door was opened, having recognized the intruder into its domain, arose swiftly, padding excitedly forward.

Root took the time to smile and pat the animal’s head affectionately before turning her attention to its owner.

“No trouble this time, Harold.” She straightened, her fingers still fluffing Bear’s huge head.   “What’s the next target destination and why couldn’t you have given it to me over the phone?”

“Miss Groves..” the man hesitated, an awkwardness overtaking his usual self-assured coolness. “We have established several inroads to Primary Power Sources. You have been on the go now for over twenty-two hours.”

He ushered her in to the spacious foyer, assisting with her coat which he hung in the provided closet off to the right of the wide wooden staircase which centered this particular residence.

The woman was watching him, an odd expression on her pretty face. He could see the dark circles under the usually bright, animated eyes.

“..Perhaps, it would be advantageous for you to..rest up a bit?” he hastened to explain his presumptuous statement, guiding her into the ultramodern living area with its sleek furniture and design. “Mr. Reese has taken a few hours. Surely it would benefit all concerned if we were to take a break in our activities. To regroup and revitalize?”

Samantha Groves shook the long tresses. “I would rather give HER every opportunity possible before..”

“I assure you.” The man halted her intended edict. “No plan will be implemented without _your_ express approval or cooperation.”

“..Neither of which you require.” Root reminded, knowing full well just whom SHE would defer to if push came to shove. “What’s going on here, Harold? Why suddenly so magnanimous?”

“Suddenly?” he corrected. “The truth is, you have proven over time, that we are primarily, on the same side for the time being. I admit to certain doubts early on, of course.”

“Whatever for?” it was quipped. Root sat in the wing back chair he had indicated.   “Simply because I kidnapped and tortured you over a period of several days.” She smiled sweetly up at the man. “All of which, I remember fondly. But why let such trivial matters mar the beginning of a beautiful friendship, right?”

“I would not say ‘torture’, per se.” His mouth had pulled into a slight rebuke. “You attempted civility. I was simply..a bit arbitrary, I suppose. But I could not trust your motives then.”

“And it still bothers you.” Samantha sat demurely, hands on the knees of her tan slacks.   “That Alicia Corwin thing?”

She wriggled her nose in open distaste because _he_ hadn’t bothered to show any emotion whatsoever.   “I have to wonder, Harold. Just how many times that woman sanctified some unsuspecting person’s death.” She lifted knowledgeable brows. “Not that I endorse or approve _anyone’s_ demise.” She blinked her lashes almost coquettishly. “Not since having made _your_ acquaintance, that is.”

Finch could not tell these days, when the amusement at his expense stopped or started.

“So now..you trust me?”

“No.” he answered bluntly. “I do believe, however, that you will protect the Machine at all costs and that will suffice.”   He turned introspective for a beat.   “Perhaps the choices Ms. Corwin made in her life lead her to that fateful meeting with you, Miss Groves. I am ambiguous on the matter. It did..bother me greatly before, however.”

The quietness in the man’s manner troubled the woman’s conscience somewhat. She shook the emotion, arising, irritated suddenly but not having the vaguest notion as to the ‘why’ of it all.

She crossed to the window, looking out on a dreary, grey day. Storm clouds gathered above the two-storied house with its Gothic gables.

The silence of the room upset her.

Bear nuzzled her thigh, whimpering slightly. She massaged him absently.

Harold studied his traitorous dog and the young woman’s profile diligently, wondering at Samantha Groves’ quietness.

She usually had quick, succinct ‘come-backs’ to any and all conversation he and John Reese undertook but today, she had been silent.

He actually bothered to check on her from time to time for the fact.

Perhaps she was simply exhausted. He knew he was verging on that state.

“..It was raining the day my mother died.” Root watched the downpour hit the streets, pooling into huge puddles, running down to the nearest drainage area.  

Finch could find no articulate reply, although he searched desperately for one.

The totally unexpected remark had thrown the man slightly. Samantha Groves never shared personal data.. _ever._

“..It was raining the day they laid the gravestone for Hanna.” The dark eyes continued to peruse the gathering clouds, mesmerized by the beauty of the dark, frothy formations.

Harold had wanted to attend the ceremony but they were busy with a new Number. It had troubled him the entire day, that he could not be there for the young girl.

“I don’t like the rain.”

“..I’m so sorry, Miss Groves, for your great losses.” Finch knew the words rang empty. “..I do know what it means to lose someone close..a loved one.”

“I know you do.” She turned her head, uncrossing her arms from her chest area, forcing a smile.   “We are both getting maudlin.” She sighed lightly.   “..Perhaps I _will_ go back to the hotel for a while.”

Harold started to speak, halted himself then..forged bravely ahead. “It is such a drive and the weather appears to be taking a turn for the worse.” He stated his reasoning before the actual crux of the proclamation he was about to make.   He licked his lips for his mouth was suddenly dry. “..I’m not quite certain how to say this without sounding disturbingly.. forward.” he crooked his head slightly.

He scowled for his predicament. “This house has four bedrooms. Forgive me for saying this but..you really do appear as if you have pushed your body to its limits. Believe me, if anyone knows the signs of such a disorder, it is I.”

He shrugged minutely.   “I could order you a taxi..” he left it hanging.

“Which could lead them back to this house if I am somehow compromised.” Root’s customary smirk was back for a brief second, the pretty eyes sparking impishly. “I _know_ you don’t have any designs on me, Harold.” The thought seemed to amuse her further.

She gently pushed Bear’s head off her lap, for she had returned to her former seat while Finch spoke.   The dog had gingerly trotted over for a massage.

“ _Despite that fact_..” she threw the man a chastising glance as she passed.   “I will take you up on your kind offer of a room for the night.”

She halted by the archway of the foyer.   “Where are his treats?”

Harold nodded to the appropriate hiding place.

Root dutifully gave over a few of the morsels which Bear gobbled up hungrily, as if he hadn’t been fed in days.

“Any of the rooms upstairs are prepared for occupancy.” Harold watched her cross the marbled floor.   “Whichever takes you fancy.”

He pointed her in the general direction with a slight lift of a hand.

She halted her steps slowly, turning about. “Does that include yours, Harold?”

_“My rooms occupy the bottom floor, Ms. Groves.”_

“I always prefer to be on top..” she felt the sting, offering one of her own before continuing her trek.  

He watched her retreat, regretting his impulsive barb. Hoping to rise above the constant pettiness, pretending not to have heard her risqué remark.

“I am pleased by your sensible attitude, Miss Groves.” He called after her retreating figure. “Please rest well.”

“Bear.” He scolded when the dog would have followed up the stairs.

“He’s fine.” Root patted her thigh and Bear lifted mournful eyes to its Master, waiting patiently for Harold’s decree.

Finch sighed heavily, motioning the dog ‘onward’, feeling the brunt of the insult.   “Turncoat.” He muttered once turning aside.

If the dog heard, which it undoubtedly did, it did not bother to return to its rightful place.

* * *

 

 “Please do not be alarmed, Miss Groves.”

The soft voice came out of the darkness of the room, calming the woman’s frayed nerves.  

Root had gasped, her subconscious recognizing Harold Finch for which she was truly grateful because her honed instincts had raised the weapon she kept under her covers, always by her side, automatically prepared for any and all threats.

She hastily lifted the sights up and away, her heart thudding loudly in her chest cavity, the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

“What are you doing, Harold?” her voice was more censored than she had meant, a sharpness to the usual musical quality.

“I am well accustomed to awaking John Reese.” The man stood quietly silhouetted against the bright light of the outer hallway fixture.   “He reacts in a similar fashion.”

Samantha pushed her hair back out of her face, her fingers trembling visibly. She scanned the unfamiliar surroundings, the shadows of the room flickering in the frequent lightening outside the domain.

Her mind was still filled with dread for what could have happened.

“You called out.” Harold explained his presence. “I was concerned. Are you alright, Miss Groves? Is there anything you require?”

Samantha Groves had been in a very bad place moments before. Sometimes they came.. _to remind her._ To visit.

“Thank you for checking on me.” She offered the mundane.   “I’m sorry if I disturbed your sleep.”

“The storm is worsening. We may lose power but I have a backup generator in which case.” The information was given over.   “Bear was restless. He awoke me, not you, Miss Groves.”

The woman straightened slightly, her attention instant and riveted.

“Nothing is wrong.” It was quickly assured. “Please return to your sleep, if you are able.”

The last thing she wanted was to ‘return to her sleep’. “I don’t suppose you have any coffee in house?”

“..Of course.” The man remembered his manners. “I will prepar..”

Root threw the covers of the duvet aside, wiggling from the warmth of the bed.   “I can do it.” She grabbed the large white robe he had supplied before her shower hours ago, padding barefoot to his position.   “There is a few hours left before daybreak.” She left the long robe open, revealing the pajama top she had found lying on her bed when she had exited the bath. “You and Bear try to catch a few more winks.”

She stood now, arms hugging her body against the chill of the house, the large brown eyes wide and fully awake. “I’m quite self-sufficient. I make a mean espresso if I do say so myself.”

“Then..let us see if you can prove your boast.” He gracefully gestured, arm wide, his head slightly inclined.

“Go to bed, Harold.” She insisted, feeling bad for having awaken the man. “I’m not going to take the silverware although..” she feigned a sudden interest.   “That big screen T.V. in the front room _did_ catch my wandering attention, I give fair warning.”

She was shocked to see his eyes soften, a quick smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “You couldn’t lift it..best to stick to the contents of the safe, I think.”

“..You have a safe?” she blinked an all too innocent inquiry.

“Of course I do.” He guided her, stepping slightly to allow her precede him.   “Now, all you have to do is ..figure out where it is located.”

He was teasing her in his own fashion, even though the placid eyes would never have betrayed as much.

“I would rather just hack your accounts.” She dodged Bear’s huge paws as the dog took the lead, running the stairs swiftly, waiting at the bottom for his much slower Master’s arrival, prancing playfully about, it’s nails clicking merrily on the granite floor.

“You haven’t already attempted the feat?” he appeared a trifle insulted.

“Actually, your’s is one of the few I have not checked out..well, in _that_ fashion.” She admitted, having matched her steps to his navigating the stairs.

They entered the kitchen, Finch throwing light on the immaculate area by the pressing of a switch. “Should I be honored…or concerned.” He glanced back over his shoulder, crossing to search out the cupboards.

“Both.” She held her smile.

The man smiled back, sitting the creamer and two cups down on the counter.

Root had taken a black stool which complimented the sleek bar area.

“Mr. Reese says I make the worse coffee this side of the Pecos.” Finch scowled ruefully. “I’m not even sure where that is..or if it still exists.”

Root’s mouth pulled into an endearing grin.

“That’s woman’s work anyway.” She pushed herself erect, seeking out the coffee-maker.

“I haven’t updated the appliances.” He watched to see if she would be disappointed with what was available.   “No lattes tonight, I fear.”

“Ohhh.” She pouted for all of a second. “Well, then one must improvise..adapt..overcome.”

“An excellent motto.”   He took her previous seat watching her move comfortably about the space, preparing the beverage.

“Yeah, I think it belongs to the Marines..or the Boy Scouts.” She measured the coffee haphazardly pouring it into appropriate slot on the coffee-maker. “Maybe the Shriners?”

Harold interlaced his fingers, his hands placed on the cool granite surface of the bar. Harold offered a throaty chuckle, which thrilled Samantha. She loved she could elicit any sort of response from the man, let alone one so delightful.

“You’re staring, Harold.” She could feel his eyes. “Which is rather disconcerting.” Brown eyes met blue.

“I’m sorry.” He broke the contact, shaking his head. “The truth is. I find you a very interesting study in contrasts, Miss Groves.” The fact seemed to trouble the man greatly.

“It’s all very Freudian, isn’t it.” She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I would imagine, I would make quite a ‘case-study’.”

“How so?” he was curious, encouraging her to continue.

The woman stopped her busy work, staring at him with a cooled expression.   “Do you feel a deep seeded need to get me on your couch, Harold?”

The moment was broken and Finch felt a distinct regret. “..Why do you do that?”

“Flirt with you?” she asked quietly. “You are smart enough to figure that one out, Harry.”

He shifted slightly, his expression taking on a quizzical air. “You and I both know, Miss Groves. That your behavior conceals a much more complex problem.”

She took the pot from the maker, crossing to pour the steaming liquid into the waiting containers, then adding cream and sugar to her own mug.

“Or a very simplistic one you are refusing to acknowledge.” She baited.

“To what ends?” he was mystified, admitting as much. “What is it you hope to accomplish? What is it, you think will materialize between us, exactly?”

Root waited because she knew he wasn’t finished.

“I have stated my reasons, why such an ill-conceived alliance would never.. _ever_ work!” He had. “All sound, common sense ‘whys and wherefores’. Ones you have as yet to refute, and still you continue these infantile, unhealthy attempts to.. _what?_ ” he demanded. “What is your goal?”

“Sometimes ‘theory’ proves itself false when applied practically.” She reached slowly, her warm fingers curving to his thicker ones, the pressure singularly alarming for Harold Finch.

The man started visibly and now sat, ram-rod straight, staring at the contact, wondering how to sever it while still maintaining the current civility he had worked so hard to achieve.

 _Why had he done such a thing_? He reminded himself of the old adage: ‘ _keep your enemies closer’_.. but he knew it was more.

He looked into those liquid eyes, his thoughts chaotic and muddled.

At times, she was like a lost waif, needing guidance and reassurance.. then she was, _the other._    Cold, calculating.. taciturn, shrewd, conniving.. cunning.

What she was capable of chilled him and yet..

“You haven’t pulled away.” The soft tone washed over him raising goose flesh.  

It was, in fact, she who broke the contact……

 


	7. Alliances Forged The Hard Way

Harold could still feel the warmth of her fingers. There was something decidedly ‘Human’ in the moment that the man realized, he had missed out on for many years now.

He cleared his throat gently, seeking an explanation in his own mind as to the strange emotions surging through his mind and body. “..Freud would say..”

Root came around the counter, stepping directly in the man’s line of sight.

The soft chocolate eyes softened just for him, latching onto his blue crystal ones. “I’m more interested in what ‘Harold Finch’ has to say.”

Harold was experienced enough to read the situation for what it was rapidly developing into, breaking contact with those mesmerizing eyes determinedly.

Her nearness was affecting him he was loathe to admit and the sooner he was away from such a disturbing influence the better. “..He would say, Miss Groves..” it was emphasized with a firm, steady tone.   “That it is rather late and..”

“I never took you for a coward, Harold.” The challenge halted the man’s intended rebuke.

The woman stepped..closer. So much so, Finch was forced to move his legs apart, her action so totally unexpected, he had not time to prepare himself.

“Why are you so afraid?” it was questioned with such simplicity, it served to nullify Finch’s objections to her behavior.   “..Don’t you..wonder?”

Root knew she had, night after night. Late, when the only sound was her own breathing.

Harold’s gaze drifted over the half-opened robe front, the carelessly neglected buttons of the sleeper top he had loaned her, showing just enough flesh to hint at the prize which lay beneath the fabric.

She smelled of baby powder of all things. The scent drifted up from her warmed skin, evoking memories of Baby Leila.

It was triggering other emotional responses as well.

Harold straightened self-consciously sensing he was losing control of the situation fast.   “..I never said that you weren’t an attractive specimen, Miss Groves.” He would let her down as easily as possible.

“You sweet talker you, Harold.”  she lifted seductive brows.

He ignored the flippant retort, swallowing the nerves he felt, determined to handle the matter like the mature adult he was.

“I would have to be one of the ‘Undead’ of which Mr. Reese constantly refers..not to have noticed.” He _had_..noticed, unfortunately.   “Under the right circumstances, I would be hard-pressed to deny a certain..” he moved ever so carefully here, seeking the correct term but unfortunately, for them? There would never be a ‘correct’ phrase which applied.

“Not to say, I am not extremely flattered and grateful for whatever attentions you have bestowed upon me.” He tried to make light of the subject.   “The Good Lord knows, the days when a lovely young woman has taken the time and effort, are long since passed.”

Root’s mind seemed to be wandering, however..her ‘attention’s focused elsewhere at that exact moment.

Her hand lifted gracefully, the slender fingers moving forward ever so slowly, as if she approached a skittish deer, her gaze direct and fixed.

She trailed an agonizingly slow trek down the fabric of Harold’s grey-tweed vest front, stopping at each herringbone button to linger delicately.   “You are such a private person.” The realization appeared to beguile her.

The light pressure of her touch was inoffensive and while Harold usually disliked his space being invaded for any reason unless he initiated the interfacing…he found the illusive presence singularly disturbing to his already heightened senses.

_This was not good, he decided_. Not good at all in any sense of the word.

Then..why was he allowing it to continue, against his better judgment. The light fragrance emanating from the opened lapels of that damnable night shirt she wore stirred his senses, befuddled his thoughts.

She really was a very beautiful woman, especially when she leaned forward so provocatively as she was doing at this exact moment.

Harold leaned back, unaware of having done so, alarm bells clanging loudly in his brain.

He sat perfectly still, not wishing to break her concentration.

This close, her complexion captivated him. She had a natural soft pinkness gracing her cheekbones, the dark lashes long and silky against the cream of her flesh. He could feel the heat of her body.

The large brown eyes lifted from her pastime, their depths full of doubt, anxiety and hesitancy.

Had they retained their usual confidence..challenge, he could have broken the spell she wove.

But the radiant cheeks flushed slightly, her hand falling away.

Root’s nerve faltered badly.

_It was far too soon_.

What had she expected, but..why did she feel so desperately unsettled.

No more so than Harold Finch.

Finch’s fingers balled into a tight fist, his voice sounding odd to his ears. _There was only one way to handle the problem_.

He stiffened his spine. “ _Now_..who is the coward, Miss Groves?”

She jerked her head about, the long chestnut hair bobbing gently with the movement. She stared at him for an inordinate amount of time.

Harold lifted expectant brows. “Well, this is awkward.” He intoned quietly.

Root continued her pastime, searching his face for something he wasn’t about to allow.

“It _was_ your intention..” he boldly inquired, preparing himself for both the reply and possible repercussions if his plan back fired.   “To take this..experiment, a step further, was it not?”

Her gaze dropped to his mouth remaining transfixed.

“I will never dispel this erroneous misconception you are under if you stop the proceedings now.” He stated gently for all that. “Perhaps a practical demonstration..”

The woman dropped her head, the long tresses falling about her face, obscuring it for a goodly while. She finally lifted defiant eyes. Samantha Groves was nobody’s fool. She had picked up on his strategy, resenting the hell out of it, obviously.

“The coffee is getting cold.” Her clipped tone bothered Harold slightly but he forged onward.

His hand reached hastily, the tips of his fingers ever so lightly touching hers as they moved across the granite counter top.

Root gasped slightly, galvanized by the stroke of his hand, hastily pulling aside. It felt as if electricity sparked all around her.

A dangerous high voltage current that, if she moved incorrectly even one centimeter, things would go horribly awry.

She was once again reminded, she was playing Chess with a Master Strategist.

The man stood, facing his opponent squarely then leaned slightly, his head tilting in order to achieve the desired position.  

He hadn’t done this in a long while.

_A very long while._ There was a degree of anticipation that both titillated and alarmed.   His pulse had jumped erratically, the blood rushing through his veins.

He remembered this feeling, fighting the mounting exhilaration, but he refused to think about that right at this moment.

Surely, it was like riding a bike…

A very attractive, alluring ‘bike’…

Finch’s body betrayed him, however his inner confidence fading a bit for one brief second.

He could feel the tension between them. He sensed she felt a tentative trepidation, but certainly, no more than he.

He closed his eyes, moving very close to the woman’s pretty face, his nose grazing hers ever so gently.

Root closed her eyes, savoring the contact, her heart thudding erratically.

Finch nuzzled the warm flesh falteringly, before gathering his courage, his hand lifting, his fingers gently touching the contour of Samantha Groves’ cheek, the very tips ever so lightly holding her from any sort of movement.

He was male enough to enjoy the small catch in her breath the very second before his lips touched her full mouth ever so lightly.

Her breath smelled of coffee and a crisp, clean freshness, her lips tasting sweet and delicious.

He had not prepared himself for the onslaught of cascading emotions bombarding his senses.

Harold pulled back determinedly, hating to break the link. He forced a calmness he definitely was not feeling.   “..There.” he offered a self-satisfied smirk.   “You see? Nothing extraordinary occurred ..did it.” His expression was carefully controlled as was his tone and body language.

The young woman stood before him, silent and morose.

“The Earth did not move, alas..” he drew in a cleansing breath, exhaling slowly, observing her in silence.   “I am merely a man after all..no different than any other of my doubtful Breed.”

He stuck his hands in the pockets of his black slacks, feeling terrible for how he had handled the situation but he really had saw no other way.

“You identify me with the Machine.” His tone was comforting. “But I assure you, there is nothing special about me. As Mr. Reese can attest.” He disliked her distant attitude. He wished he could have found another path.   “I have faults..the Lord knows I do! I make mistakes, Miss Groves.. continuously of late.” The depression settled about the man.   “I err in judgment, on a daily basis. If SHE is your God, I am sorely afraid, HER _Creator_ is _nothing_ like the Deity to which you have pledged your allegiance.”

Root turned aside, too damned quiet for his liking, having put distance between the, standing now, her back to him, in the middle of the large area.

He felt his inadequacies deeply, allowing the moody silence for a goodly spell while he gathered his thoughts.

He absently removed his hands from the confines of his pockets, feeling Root’s desolation, knowing he was the cause.

He sought desperately for a common bonding ground if only to eradicate the isolated expanse which now separated them, his guilt an overpowering one.

“..My Father was ill for a very long time before he passed..” He listened to the sound of the heavy rain on the roof, his thoughts flowing freely this dark and gloomy night.

The silence of the room screamed to be filled.

Outside the Bay windows, rain pellets pounded the panes, their crystal droplets cascading down the slick surface.

The soft pitter-pat was increasing to a heavy thud on the structured roof, rivulets rushing down the eaves soaking the well-manicured lawn, running out into the streets in waves of turbulent sheets of glistening liquid.

“..Like you, Miss Groves.” Harold continued his narrative. “Inclement weather brings about bad memories in its wake.. _for me_ as well.”

Root retraced her steps, drawn to the soothing, hypnotic voice.

“..And, yes, it rained the day he died..the entire week for that matter.” He had turned slightly, keeping his upper body straight for it caused him pain to bend his form in normal ways.   “I always hoped it was because the Angels were sad at his passing.” He smiled at the ridiculous assumption.

“I know..it certainly devastated _me._ ” He hated thinking about that time, especially the fact that he was forced to take on the role of an Orderly to avoid detection by the outside factions who were still searching for him over his little ARPANET indiscretion. The only way he could be with his Father on that horrible day.  The sadness came and stayed.  “So many years have passed and still..”

The man turned even more introspective.   “..He once said something to me which troubled me greatly for a very ..very long time.”

Root advanced hesitantly, drawn into the tale he was weaving.

“I refused to accept the reality his words presented.” He could admit such fallacies now. “It became the foundation, if you will..the driving force behind..”   he shrugged his shoulders lifting the fabric of the soft blue shirt he wore. He had loosened the blue and black tie hours ago. It hung down, the knot slightly askew.   “Well..everything that I did. Everything that I.. _am_ , I suppose.”

He hadn’t put it into words until this second.

“..What did he say?” Root hadn’t wanted to ask but she was too enthralled to see this side of the man to halt the narration.

Harold smiled wistfully. “He _said_..” he remembered verbatim but paraphrased in this instance.   “ _Somethings, when broken..are not meant to be fixed.”_

Root could not grasp such a concept.

Harold turned slightly, catching her gaze.   _“..I_..am broken, Miss Groves.” He explained contemplatively.   He held out his hands to both sides as if to illustrate.   “..Not only physically but..otherwise, I fear.”

The brown eyes filled with wariness and something else Harold could not read.

“I’m not the same man I was..before.” he indicated his malady yet again. “The accident..changed me.”

Root lifted her head, her eyes all too keenly insightful. “Is that why you refuse to allow Grace back into your life?”

The man stiffened, “We were not discussin..”

“You protect her.” She resented the fact. “You shield her from bad things. You always have. Even from yourself.”

“That is none of your..”

“Is she so frail a Being? That she couldn’t accept reality?” Anger filled the woman, plain and simple.   “ _I know_ all your dirty little secrets, Harold!” She snapped, pointing to herself.   “ _I accept_ all that you are..or have been or ever will be!”

The man lowered his eyes, shifting them deferentially.

“We are both..broken!” she disdained, making her case, her voice trembling with intensity. “And yet..we survive. We go on.”

She fell silent, another ‘reality’ assailing her senses. The brown eyes closed and she swallowed the threat of tears. “..Grace would accept you.” Her tone was listless.   “You underestimate her.”

Root’s fingers rubbed her eyelids for she was suddenly exhausted. “..You should give her the chance to prove as much.”

She started back to her room. Bear lay in the floor, barring the exit she had intended to take.   She sighed heavily, looking for another escape route.

“..Please, Miss Gro..” Harold’s tone held his compassion and remorse. “.. _Samantha_.” he impulsively used her given name. “Do not ‘settle’..in life. You are far better than that.” He stepped once, attempting to halt her intended retreat if only to have his say.

His eyes were earnest, sensing the turmoil he had caused. “I would never hurt you intentionally. It simply is not in me to do so.” He told the absolute truth.   “ _I hope you believe that_. And..it grieves me to see you so..” he wasn’t sure what she was, exactly..but he knew, he was distressed.

“Somewhere..” he continued, motioning aimlessly. “Out in the Cosmos, is a vital young man you have yet to meet who will fulfill each and every need you possess. Please..” he pleaded openly. “ _Please_ keep an open mind and heart. _Wait for him_. Like I did, Grace.”

The woman shifted a cool stare.

“Look how that turned out, Harold.” She laughed mirthlessly. “There are no ‘happy endings. Fairy tale Princes don’t exist.”

“And yet..you expected a frog..” he touched his vest front. “To turn into one.” He smiled half-heartedly.   “..He exists, Miss Groves.”

She closed her eyes wearily.

“Just..give it time.” He advised sagely. “I know of what I speak.”

“Young, vital men bore me to tears.” She sighed heavily. “Ten minutes in their company and I want to put a shot gun in my mouth..or theirs!” she was more than frustrated.   “What about that fact, Harold?”

The man could give her no answers at this time.

“You know what I hate most?” the young woman needed to ‘share’. “People who placate me and do you know why?”

“Yes, I know ‘why.’” His calm tone served to nullify her growing dissention. “Because they never see the real you..they treat you as nothing more than what you appear to be on the surface. Much as Mr. Reese and I when you posed as Caroline Turing.”

Her attention was caught.

“But you are so much more than that and now..you believe I am repeating the error in judgment.” He inclined his head respectfully. “That you don’t know your own mind.”

“I’m not asking for a commitment here.” The idea seemed ludicrous even to the woman.  “Allow me prove myself..my intentions to you, Harold! Do you believe a person can change?”

“Absolutely.” The answer came without rancor. “I do, Miss Groves.”

Something in his voice deflated her hopes. “..Just..not me.”

“Do not put words into my mouth, please.” He advised.   “..I’ve tried hard to forgive you for..that first meeting. Living in the past is never a wise thing.”

He had to be honest, however if only to himself.

“..I’m afraid I was rather..shaken by that incident. I admit that freely.” He had done so a long time ago.   “ _Besides t_ he fact, I believed you would eventually end my life..there was the _other._ ”

Root knew he meant Denton Weeks and the innocent by-stander she had threatened in the train station.

He shifted because standing in one spot cause him pain. “I used to send Mr. Reese out..and Ms. Shaw..into the Frey, without any more thought than I would ask someone to pick up my dry cleaning.” The thought sickened him now.

“You made me understand in the most graphic of terms..just what those two young people face each and every time they have to venture forth.”

His eyes allowed his awe. “What a wondrous thing! That I can _truly_ grasp the emotional and physical toll I place on them.”

The young woman felt the weight of his statement.

“I was safe in my own world, insulated behind the Library walls.” He mused thoughtfully. “But the truth of the matter is, we..none of us, are ‘safe’ are we. You made me see that as well.”

Bear snuffled in his sleep.

Harold watched the beautiful animal envying the tranquility he witnessed.

“But there is _the other half_.” Root reminded, finishing the story for him.   “That cannot forgive or forget. I get that.” She did.   “Maybe you will never be able to do either. It’s a chance I am willing to take.”

He closed his eyes, dreading to say the words.   “There can be no ‘future’ for ‘us’, Miss Groves.” He quietly, sympathetically stated. “ _Not_ because of the ‘Past.’”

“I know you sincerely believe that.”

“Then..what more is there to say?” he exasperated. “I value you as a fellow fighter in this heinous situation in which we now find ourselves.” He would give her that much.   “Your intelligence ..your insight, has proven invaluable. And believe it or not, I am flattered beyond scope that you would, for even one second in time..consider me somehow worthy of your attentions but..”

“That will suffice for now.” She smiled happily. “Let me worry about the rest, Harold.”

“Have you heard a single word I have said?” he was flabbergasted.

“I hear all you say.” She stated simply. “I listen most attentively.” She crossed, tip-toeing, balancing herself, her hands on his forearms.  She planted a lingering kiss directly over the very beginning of his mouth.

“ _Tired minds don’t plan well_.” She quoted, moving back, her bubbly animated old self coming to the fore.   “James Mason, Arlene Dahl. .. _Journey to the Center of the Earth_..1959 version. I didn’t even have to ‘Google’ it. One of my favorite movies of all time.”

She flounced off, careful not to disturb the sleeping dog when she stepped over its reclined body.

She threw the man a mischievous grin, disappearing finally, having taken the turn that would lead to the staircase and eventually, her bedroom.

Harold sighed more than heavily, shaking his head woefully. He automatically sat, reaching for his still warm cup of coffee.

“Why do I have the feeling..” the man muttered dejectedly to himself, sipping his coffee absently. “That she could win an argument with Norman Bates if she really put her mind to it?”

He arose stiffly headed for the coffee maker, muttering sotto voce. “Janet Leigh, Tony Perkins… _Psycho_ … 1960 version. And I didn’t even have to ‘Google’ it. One of my favorite movies of all time.”

 

 


	8. It's About Time

John Reese tapped his ear piece, something troubling the young man greatly, his expression saying as much although the usually dour face hid most of his true emotions. A survival trait he had learned early on in his chosen vocation.

“Finch.” He glanced back to the building he had only just vacated, his steps leisurely and unhurried. The man reached his rental car, throwing wide the door.   “That was a Nuclear Plant I just walked out of, correct?”

“It was indeed, Mr. Reese..your point?” Finch sat a little straighter at his desk, ready to supply any and all data needed.

“It took us less than twenty minutes to breech their security.” John looked over the nondescript sedan, his foot on the door panel, his arms braced on the top of the vehicle.

Finch was momentarily unable to follow the younger man’s train of thought. “You performed your assigned task exceedingly well, yes. And..again. Your point?”

“Don’t you find it a little… scary?” John folded his lanky frame into the comfortable leather of the sleek seat, firing the push-button ignition to life. “That I could go in and plant this jibber jabber thingamabob. And nobody questioned me…?”

“Be happy they didn’t.” Finch reminded. “And remember.. not many people have the _Resource_ available to _us_ , Mr. Reese.”

“What happens when your little black boxes are discovered?” Reese questioned. He pulled out of the large iron gated area, turning unto the private road which had led him to the _Indian Point Energy Center._

“The Machine only needs seconds to link to the operational systems we are infiltrating.” Finch stated. “After which, it shuts down the device. Our intrusion will register only a brief drop in the overall output of the Reactors capability.”

“So..you’re saying..” Reese made his way onto the Freeway, heading for home. “They can’t monitor or trace the energy drain.”

“That is what I am saying, yes.”

“Security protocols are ridiculously easy to overcome.” Root’s small voice piped in, having listened into the conversation now for some few minutes.   “People are very lax in their duties. Flash them an official looking laminated card and the idiots blindly accept anything you say as ‘fact’.”

Reese had to believe her because that is just what he had done. Even the Military and Private Security Force found at the Plant had ignored his presence once he had gotten past the main gate area.

“And a good morning to you too, Miss Groves.” Finch could see the young woman on his video feed approaching the large complex they had targeted.   His tone held a measure of censor. “You are running a tad late.”

“Her _Psychos Anonymous_ meeting ran over.” Reese quipped.

“The traffic was horrendous.” She seemed calm, collected as she walked the length of the parking area provided. “I’m here now.”

The heels of her stylish boots clicked merrily on the polished tiles of the Institution’s main lobby entrance. The brightly colored pink skirt swished gently along her upper thighs. The matching blouse tapered to the slender figure. A stylish leather coat completed the ensemble. 

Harold watched, sitting forward in his seat as she approached the first obstacle in their carefully conceived strategy. He was nervous for her, his eyes glued to the screen of his monitor.

The man unconsciously held his breath.

“Good morning, Gentlemen.” Root had put on her brightest smile. “That view is certainly astonishing today!” her slight hand waved in the needed direction. “The river is so majestic.”

Finch noticed that the two Soldiers attention was definitely not focused on the _view,_ although one gave it his best shot.

“Your credentials, Ma’am.” The burly, stern-faced Sergeant’s tone was more than intimidating to Finch’s way of thinking.

“Well, of course.” Root picked up the laminated card she wore around her neck and in the process, she leaned forward, the rather risqué, low cut blouse she wore showing a generous sample of something other than her ‘ID’ badge.

Harold Finch quirked a disapproving brow.

“I don’t have to take it off, do I?” she crinkled her nose. “You can work around it, can’t you?”

“She _is_ talking about the badge, right?” Reese had _tried not to ask.. he really had._

“..I can see it just fine, Ma’am.” The Sergeant was softening by degrees, that stern, over-bearing scowl a thing of the past. The chill having melted from the guard’s face.

The disgruntled sound Finch made, alerted Reese to something awry, his hands tightening on the steering wheel..

“What?” He asked intently.

Root straightened, dimpling for the tall soldier. “So..” she observed the man’s accoutrements. “.. _Captain_..what’s the procedure from here?”

Harold sighed heavily. ‘ _Captain, indeed.’_ He mused  mentally, slightly irritated. That woman knew very well what rank the man held. Besides, they had discussed ‘procedure’ just this morning before she left.

“If you will just take a seat in the Waiting Area.” The man motioned accordingly to the mammoth ‘Visitor’s Center’ area to the right of their ‘Check-In’ station.   “I will inform Mr. Fitzpatrick that you have arrived.”

“Aren’t you sweet.” Root looked the man up and down with growing interest. She turned aimlessly about, pretending confusion, seeking out the man once again.   “..This way?”

Again, Finch shook his head woefully. He had personally supplied the layout of the entire facility, which Root knew by heart.

He knew perfectly well the ploy she utilized in this instance but something deep down was annoying the hell out of him.

“Just down the corridor to the right, Ma’am.” The Sergeant stepped from his post, pointing the way.

“Ohh!” the woman gasped softly, her hand fluttering to her chest area, once again, drawing attention to the deliciously tempting region.   “ _Ma’am_?!” she grimaced, the perfectly white teeth catching on her lower lip, pretending distress. “Do I look _that_ old?”

“Oh, hell no, Ma… _Miss_.” The ‘Captain’s tune was rapidly changing to Finch’s chagrin. “..You know what? Why don’t I just show you the way.”

“Oh, could you?” She breathed a sigh of relief. “How very good of you, Captain.” She took the man’s arm and Finch cringed inwardly, at the more than familiar gesture.

Did he associate such an intimate act with himself exclusively?

Did she manipulate _him_ that effortlessly?

“ _Sergeant_.” The misconception was finally corrected. “Just a lowly Non-Com, Ma.. _Miss._ ”

“And where would the Upper Echelon be without men of your ability and know-how?” she hadn’t missed a beat, Finch noted. “My name is Sarah, by the way.”

“Mike.” The man readily offered over his given name.

It was Reese’s turn to shake his head.   “Men think with their dicks.”

Harold sat back, his mouth quirking slightly. He had been thinking along similar lines but John Reese had summed it up nicely, in his opinion.

Finch clicked off the image for a spell.

“You are headed for the Airport, Mr. Reese?” He questioned the man rather crisply.

“No, I’m going to Disneyworld.” Reese held up a closed fist in mock jubilation. “Finch, we went over all of this a thousand times this morning.” He exasperated.

Finch nodded mutely, continuing his train of thought.

“Although the Machine is capable of establishing links within the parameters of a State, it will need you to physically connect it to the Western-Half of the country as well.”

“Exactly how much power does this thing require, Finch?” Reese was curious.

“The more the better.” Finch shrugged, absently rubbing Bear’s ears as he spoke. “Alta Wind Energy Center is located in Kern County, California. It is the largest wind farm in the world. That is our next target, assuming Miss Groves can complete her mission successfully.” His lips pursed.

 **“** You doubt my abilities, Harold.” The woman sat demurely on the comfortable sofa in the middle of a gigantic foyer with a wonderful view of the river below the Power Station.   She wasn’t interested in the ‘view’ or the young 'Sargent' who had just left her vicinity.  The man cast a flirtatious glance back over his shoulder even now.     “..I’m crushed.”

“Not so much your abilities, Miss Groves as your veracity.” Finch stated brusquely.

“Or sanity.” Reese made mention.

Root smiled gently. “..If She isn’t able to interface with Samaritan’s systems.” She felt compelled to keep prompting.   “All this work and effort will benefit the other side, guys. Just a gentle reminder.”

“It’s only a matter of time before _D.E.C.I.M.A_. arrives at the same conclusion.” Harold knew for certainty.   “I am attempting to give the Machine every possible opportunity to prevail, Miss Groves.”

Root would put her faith in _HER_ but _SHE_ had sent her here, so the scenario must play out, she knew.   She kept her opinions to herself for the time being.

* * *

 

 Harold sat, drumming his fingers on the expensive wood of his desk area. He had stared at the screens that flickered image after image of this data or that, unable to concentrate.

 _Why_ , the man had no idea.

It was imperative that he be ‘present and accounted for’ under such trying circumstances, after all.  His mental facilities must not be compromised.

He watched the woman’s approach.

She had exited the rental car which was discretely parked out of the view of the street in the circular drive in back of the two-storied house he occupied.

A precaution only, of course. Were they under surveillance, no amount of ‘caution’ would prevent the enemy from locating their position.

Finch heard the back door open..Bear was up and bounding forward, toward the sound _and  now familiar scent_ , Finch imagined.

Never mind that Harold had been rubbing the suddenly ‘perked-up’ ears at the time of departure.

Samantha Groves’ musical voice gently soothed and praised the animal.

Finch’s mouth tightened.   _That dog could lay no claim to loyalty what-so-ever!_

He definitely would have to speak to John Reese about this recent development.

“Man’s best friend, my ass.” He muttered his growing disillusionment.

Reese pulled a quizzical frown, his ‘nap’ disturbed by the gruff retort. The sound of the airplane’s engines having lulled him into a light sleep. “..What’s going on?”

Root breezed into the large, airy room, dog by her side, her fingers gently stroking Bear’s ears.

Finch’s eyes narrowed at the dog.

“I came back for a change of outfit.” She commented without preamble. “I think a more..subtle approach is required for our next objective, don’t you?”

She lifted perfectly arched brows, waiting expectantly.

“I most certainly do!” Finch piped up hastily, his tone a little more acerbic than intended.

Reese stirred slightly, alerted to a possible ‘situation’. One he didn’t want to miss, if his instincts were in proper working order..which..they were.

Root halted her fingers work, unaccustomed to the sharpness of Finch’s attitude. “..Is there a problem?”

“No problem, per se.” Finch turned his chair, facing her, his manner verging on ‘polite’.   “I know you are accustomed to working alone, Miss Groves but we have achieved an elevated set of standards that I hold high hopes,  you might adopt.”

The woman hesitated.

“I once said, if you will recall.” Harold tried to temper his agitation. “That I wanted to help you, if you would let me.”

Root had been touched by the words, in reality.

“My point is..Ms. Shaw manages to get the job done without resorting to the use of feminine wiles.” Once said, the statement didn’t seem so bad to the man’s ears.   “..And while, admittedly, the tactic was effective in this morning’s outing, perhaps we should strive, in the future, for a more..refined technique.”

Reese grimaced slightly. “Harold..” he cautioned softly.   “Maybe you better rephrase that statement.”

“Excuse me?” The chilled inquiry matched Root’s present mood.

Harold read the woman’s body language which gave him pause for thought.  

“Back track, Finch!” Reese warned, sitting up in his reclined seat. First Class had its perks.   “ _She_ got the job done too..”

“..That is to say.” The older man heeded the advice, softening his manner. “While I appreciate the effort. I would never ask one of my..”

Reese held his breath.

“Associates to demean themselves in any way, shape or form simply as a ..”

“Good.” Reese approved.   “Bring it home...”

“..Means to an end.”  Harold wished the guy would shut the hell up at times like these.

Root’s body relaxed slowly but surely as she studied the ‘specimen’ before her.  

Bear had sensed the change in the woman, prancing nervously about her feet.

She reached, calming the animal with a soothing massage.

“..I have to wonder..Harold.” she had knelt, affectionately kneading the soft fur, her eyes lifting, their depths unreadable.   “Exactly.. _what_ prompted such an outburst.”

“I’m sorry?” the man clipped, defensively.

“You asked for this one.” Reese knew what was coming.

“When I was speaking to the guard.” She arose, leaving Bear alone and skittish in her wake.   She held Harold’s eyes as she moved..closer. “It worked, didn’t it. You said as much. So..” she shrugged slender shoulders, stopping just short of his position, her hand trailing along the cool surface of his desk.

“..You _did_ understand..” she needed to clarify in her own mind. But Harold saw no reason for her to sit on the edge of his desk.   Which, to the man..was Sacred Ground.   “That is was simply a ruse..correct?”

“Of course I did.” He took offense, his eyes dropping once again to the shapely bottom on his desk edge.   The skirt was too short in his opinion but it did show off the long, shapely legs to perfection. He pulled his eyes away, flushing slightly.   “I believe I stated..”

“Were you jealous?” Root had moved closer still, her scent.. intoxicating.

Harold stood abruptly, mindful of John Reese’s ability to hear the developing conversation.   “I think you have a task awaiting, Miss Groves.” He insisted as much, ignoring entirely John Reese’s snort of amusement.  "To which you might want to attend."  his eyes took in the 'offensive' outfit.

Root examined her outfit innocently, the movement showing off even more of the pleasing thigh. “You don’t like my dress?”

“Your appointment is one o’clock sharp.” Harold consulted his expensive watch.

The woman tilted her head slightly, the brown eyes twinkling their new found mirth.   “..Whatever you say, Harold.” She moved ever so slowly ..off his desk.   She tip-toed, caressing his cheek line with her lips, the touch soft and inoffensive.

Harold stiffened but..he did not once think of chastising her for _that_ infraction, he was later to realize.

She pulled back, a gentleness in the amber depths now. “You’re the boss.”

Finch watched her walk away, the shapely hips swaying hypnotically.

She rounded the corner, and he could hear her footfalls on the carpeted stairs.

Bear trotted happily after the departing woman.

“..You can breathe now, Harold.” Reese’s mirth filled voice came over the earphones.

Harold closed his eyes, commanding his system to return to ‘normal’.  

“You will be landing in ten minutes, Mr. Reese.” His tone was crisp and clear as he headed  to his station.   He seated himself before the monitors.   “I hope you are prepared for your undertaking.”

“More so than you were to handle your ‘Miss Groves’ a second ago.” Reese couldn’t resist the parting retort.

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Share and Share Alike

Harold sat, his eyes resting on the beautiful features of Grace Hendricks.

He never tired of looking at her.

He remembered so many good times they shared when he was allowed the time, such as now. When it was late..and quiet. Such as tonight.

He had needed to see her again. He needed to..remember.

Harold heard the footfalls on the stairs descending into his domain, quickly clicking the image off the screen.

Root rounded the partition, seeking him out.

She seemed small in the large foyer, especially as she stood, arms folded demurely over her chest area, clutching a small novel as if it were a treasured possession she was fearful of losing.

Her hair was disheveled, the long chestnut curls wayward, haphazardly framing the cherub-like face. The large brown eyes sought the man out, a haunted expression within.

“..Miss Groves.” Harold inquired politely. “Is there something you require?”

The woman sighed heavily, trudging into the darkened room, sitting heavily on the small love seat resting against the interior wall. “Don’t you ever sleep, Harold?” Her tone was weary and a little tiny bit waspish.

“I rested.” He motioned to the long sectional across the way.

Root had noted the absence of his vest and tie, his jacket hung forgotten over the back of the dining room chair. The room was lit softly by the opened wooden blinds, a street lamp shining into the numerous slats.

The woman shifted restlessly about, holding tightly to her prize, her chin laid along the weathered top of the hardback cover, her eyes shifting to the stocking feet beneath Harold’s desk.

The man’s shoes lay neatly aside, to the left of his chair.

It seemed odd, to see him minus all the usual trappings of civilization he wore so eloquently.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he offered solicitously, a little concerned. She seemed moody and introverted, unlike her habitual bubbly self tonight.

She arose, tense, fingering this and that as she went, exploring the room absently.   “The answer to that question just boggles the mind.” She quipped but there was an edge to the retort. She moved more into the shadows of the room.   “Where’s John?”

The woman glanced at the novel she held, her attention riveted.

“Mr. Reese has landed. It was late so I told him to rest.” Harold watched her warily, having noted the unusual reference to John’s actual name. “We can start fresh in the morning.”

She turned her head, glancing at his neatly organized desk. Two ear pieces lay in their velvet-lined box.

“No one in your head tonight, huh?” she indicated the objects. “Must be refreshing.” Her voice sounded wistful.   “To have your thoughts all to yourself for a change.”

Harold was picking up on something amiss, he just wasn’t sure ‘what’. “It is simply a part of the whole.” His glanced grazed the objects as well before returning to the shadowed shaped.   “I don’t really mind. They are a valuable tool..as you know.”

The white robe she wore was opened, showing beneath, a short silk gown which fanned her shapely thighs. She was barefoot.

It wasn’t like her to neglect to tie the bathrobe or to appear so unkempt before him. He found he rather liked the informality however. It was as if one of the walls with which she constantly surrounded herself, had fallen.

“Your 'Grace'.” The small voice came out of the darkness.

Harold started both mentally and physically. Had the Machine invaded is privacy? Had It conveyed..

“Is she a good person?”

Harold remained silent, unsure if he should be upset or dismayed.

“I think she’s like Hanna.” Root lifted her head, her thoughts far away for a moment.   “You have your Grace and I had Hanna.”

Harold could not make out the pretty face in the shadows in which she stood but he was concerned for her state of mind suddenly.

“Hanna was my friend but I’ve never really understood ‘why’.” He knew the customary crinkle of her nose accompanied the statement.   “Hanna was well-liked and popular. Why she bothered with me?” the slender shoulders shrugged. “But she did and I was grateful.”

Harold searched for something of import to reply, wondering at the turn of her thoughts.

“..I lay awake sometimes.” She sat demurely on the edge of an occasional chair, the book laying on her knees, held in a very tight grip, Harold noted.   “I wonder.. _what were her last hours like_?”

Harold closed his eyes to the horror of such a fancifully stated remark.

“It’s the not knowing for sure.” The woman nodded, her long tresses swaying gently back and forth.   “That’s the worst.”

Harold had no soothing words of empathy in this case, because there could be none.

“ _I didn’t know what to do.”_ She spoke conversationally. “..I mean, I told that horrible Librarian about Hanna getting into the car with good old Trent Russell.” The soft voice turned whispery and Harold had to strain to hear.   “My mom was having one of her ‘bad nights’, so she was useless.” A soft chuckle escaped the woman which chilled Finch thoroughly.   “I went back out..looking for them but his car wasn’t at his house..not then.”

The silence came. Harold shifted uneasily in his chair.

“That old witch..do you believe she actually married that letch even knowing.. _what he had done to Hanna_?” The fury was evident in the young woman’s entire being.

Harold was reminded of just how lethal Samantha Groves could be when she wished.

“She..scared me.” The little girl voice was back and Finch felt his heart constrict painfully for what that ‘little girl’ must have suffered through that hideous night.

“..I don’t imagine many have managed that feat since.”

Root’s mouth quirked, her head falling forward, the long hair obscuring her face for a long beat. She ran her finger over the top edge of the book she held.

“I..didn’t mean to be flippant, Miss Groves.” Harold genuinely regretted his statement. “I only m-meant..”

“You feel protective of Your Grace.”

He could feel the dark eyes stare.   “..Yes.” he replied quietly.

“You miss her.” there was a sadness to the question even though it had been 'stated' more than 'asked'.

“..Very much.”

The silence returned.

“Like _you_ , Miss Groves...” The man began only to second-guess the direction he was about to take.   But, the woman remained silent. He could literally feel the depression emanating from the small frame.

“ _I was afraid as well.”_ He continued, feeling his way.   “I told myself, I was protecting Grace by not seeking her out after..the accident but..” he shook his head slightly, the confession difficult to make. “The truth is..I was terrified that she would not.. _could not_..accept what it was I had become.”

He motioned accordingly. “Grace is a vital young woman..a beautiful, talented one.”

Root shifted her eyes but remained mute.

“The Doctors weren’t certain I would ever leave that damnable chair.” His tone held a bitterness he thought was long forgotten.   “I hated that chair and I hated..the ones who had put me there and killed my friend. I didn’t know such odious emotions could exist.”

Root could sympathize. Life circumstances had made her what she had become.

“But then..” he shrugged aimlessly.   “It got a little better but the lie had gone on for so long and Grace seemed..over the worse. She was settled into her new life..a life without me in it."

He looked about, his expression a lost one.   “Like you.. _I didn’t know..what to do._ So I just didn’t do..anything.” he swallowed the recriminations.

“Men are so stupid.” The brown eyes lifted, seeking him out. “Didn’t you know, Harold?” her voice was mystified.   “Grace would forgive you anything.”

He cleared doubted the statement, his expression a wistful one. “And you know this..how, Miss Groves?” he humored her.

“Because..” the soft tone washed over him. “..I would.”

Harold tried to be upset with her but..he wasn’t.   “..Why do you insist upon saying such things?” he asked wearily.

“Why do they disturb you so?” she returned.

He refused to get into it, returning to his brooding.

“I truly believe..” she tried again to reach him for it was imperative she did so.   “That Hanna has it in her to forgive me..if she truly believes I have repented enough to warrant the action.” She was lying, of course, but he didn’t have to know her inner secrets at this stage.   “If Grace would not forgive you, then..that makes my hypothesis an erroneous one, correct?”

Harold’s attention was caught.

“My sin was far worse than yours.” Root reminded.

“ _No._ ” he was quick to reassure, sitting up in his chair, his hand grasping the edge of his desk with open alarm. “No! Of course not, Miss Groves!” he shook his head vehemently.   “You committed no sin. You were a mere child reacting as a child. The only ‘sin’ was that of Trent Russell.”

“If I had reacted differently Hanna would still be alive. No amount of rhetoric, no matter how well-meaning, will alter that fact.”

He arose, swiftly crossing the space separating them, taking a seat beside her, on the love seat’s edge.   “You musn’t say that. It simply is not true.” He spoke in earnest.

“Truth is vast.” She smiled weakly. “And eloquent, Harold. Even if it’s not what we want to believe. You taught me that.”

“Please don’t.” he asked humbly.   “Please.” The man impulsively reached, his hand covering the small, cold one which rested on the top of the novel she held close.

He noted the contact even as she. He withdrew his hand slowly, embarrassed slightly.

Root felt cold inside with the absence of his warm palm. “We all have crosses to bear, is all I’m saying.” She forced a smile.   “Mine can be no worse than anyone else’s.”

She started to rise but the man touched the sleeve of the robe. “Where I purposely made the decision to hurt another human being..” he referred to Grace.   “You, as a child..needed guidance, support and supervision from an adult. _Any adult,_ which..was not forthcoming. You are not at fault here. I give you my word.”

She drew in a shaky breath.

“Do you trust me, Miss Groves?”

Root did not hesitate, nodding slowly, feeling the strong grip through the fluff of the robe material.

“Then give my words credence.” He insisted, “I am asking that you do.”

Root sat back down, her manner stiff.. unnaturally unobtrusive. “Like your Grace, Harold..you are inordinately kind.” Her tone was listless for a long beat..then..it wasn’t.   “It was too quick!” the bitterness came. “I should have made him suffer more..before they killed him.”

Finch reluctantly understood the fury behind the words.

_‘If they hurt her..kill them all.’_

His own words came back to haunt him.  

“..Yes, Miss Groves.” He answered quietly. “Perhaps you should have.”

The woman’s head jerked about, her mouth falling agape.

“I was so..terrified.” he could admit it to this woman. “That they might harm Grace.” That time came back with the full force of the emotions he felt. “ _I would have done anything to prevent it_..anything.”

“One simply cannot know the length to which they will go, until truly tested.” He had lived the truth of his words. He looked at the woman, his expression an odd one.   “I passed judgment on you, Miss Groves.” It came to him in a sudden realization.   “But, who am I, that I should?” he queried. “I see now, that justice, takes many forms.”

“There is no ‘justice’..” Root’s voice trembled, the large brown eyes filling with the threat of tears. “Not for Hanna. Nothing I could do makes up for what it is I did _not_ do.”

The black lashes blinked, wetness tracking down the creamy, flushed cheeks. “I want to believe you..I do, but in my heart..” she shook her head sadly.   She choked up, unable to continue for a beat.

She hunched over, the book dropping from her fingers unto the carpeted floor, her quiet sobs touching the man’s own heart.

He picked up the object, turning it over, reading the title:

_‘Flowers For Algernon’_

Root turned her face away, humiliated and ashamed.

It was something she simply did not do.   _Weep._ Especially before this man?

There was many times she had wanted to cry..needed to do so but, she knew, tears were a useless waste of time and energy.

Harold lay his hand on the woman’s slumped shoulder feeling the tremors traversing her body.

She moved away but this night, the pain ran too deep, it was far too poignant ..so stark it literally took her down.

She slumped to the carpeted floor, her body shaking violently from the strength of the cruel turmoil inside.

Flood gates opened and all those many years of pent up anguish and sorrow poured forth.

Harold Finch knew it was a good thing, that the woman was facing the demons which plagued her soul but the sounds of the mournful, gut-retching sobs tore at his own soul.

He reached to the huddled figure, his hands taking the shaking shoulders in a gentle, tender hold, his fingers squeezing reassuringly. “I am so very sorry.” He crooned sympathetically. “Please believe me.”

She leaned her head against his lower thigh, needing the support, his kindness devastating her already overwhelmed system.

Harold enveloped the slight frame into his arms, murmuring gentle inanities. He sank down to the carpet alongside the desolate female, gently rocking back and forth in his attempts to sooth and calm the tempestuous emotions she exhibited.

“Hanna is resting now.” He grasped at straws, stating the mundane but knowing there was no ‘right’ words at such a time.   He only hoped he could avoid the ‘wrong’ ones.   “She is at peace and she would want that for you as well..Samantha.”

Root swallowed hard, her breath catching in her throat. “ _D-Don’t be k-kind to me!”_ she stated bitterly _._

“Why ever not?” he was perplexed by such a statement.

Her answer was to renew her palpable emotional state, the dark hair falling about his shoulder as she leaned heavily upon him.

“Hanna has forgiven you.” He cupped the small head, his touch unbelievably compassionate. “Please, Samantha..forgive yourself.”

“S-She hasn’t.” the woman gulped brokenly, her full mouth trembling visibly. “She c-comes!” it was blurted. “At n-night!”

The man considered the implications. “That isn’t Hanna.” He firmly denied. “And you know as much.” She was smart enough to understand the psychology of the matter.  

He moved about into a more comfortable position, the other hurting his back.   “I know it feels real, but it simply is not.”

Nathan used to visit him at night as well. It took years to dispel the visits.

His eyes fell on the closed booklet. “The guilt we feel over any supposed transgression eats away at the psyche if we allow it do so.”

The quiet of the suddenly silent room enveloped Finch, the only other sound..Bear’s rather invasive snoring from the dining room entranceway.

Root sniffed softly, taking comfort in his nearness, the warmth of his body soothing her tired mind.

“The dead have found peace, Miss Groves.” He stated. “It is we, the living..” he sighed heavily. “That refuse to allow ourselves the same luxury.”

She moved slightly, her fingers swiping angrily at the tracks of her tears. She pushed reluctantly away, loathe to face him after such an unforgivable display of weakness on her part.

Harold found the box of tissues on the nearby coffee table, handing a few over.

Root flushed as she made use of the colorful sheets.   

“Remember, please.” He added, his eyes gentle on the averted profile.   “It was _you_ who brought a _measure_ of justice to your friend when no one else was bright enough or cared enough.. to do so.”

The woman glanced about aimlessly, lost and confused still. “I had a man killed, Harold.” How could he forget that little tidbit? Her voice held her frustration and rage.

“He deserved to die.”

She lifted amazed eyes. “You..don’t believe that.” She knew as much. “It’s not..who or what..you are. _It’s who I am_.” She smiled listlessly. “Remember?”

“I don’t pretend to be judge and jury but I do know one thing, Miss Groves.” Harold snapped. “That man…deserved to die.”

Root clung to those words because she had nothing else. Her gaze dropped to the forgotten novel by Harold’s side.   “…I hate that damned book.” She whispered hollowly.

Finch was always slightly shocked by any use of profanity from this woman in particular but he watched her stare moodily at the object, questioning what action, if any, was called for.

He impulsively flicked the edge of the novel with his fingers sending the offending book under the edge of the couch, out of sight. As a lover of books, it went against the man’s grain but..to pacify her mental state, he thought it was the very least he could do..considering.  

 

 

 


	10. Getting to Know You

**Chapter Ten    (Mature Subject Matter)**

Finch respected the newfound connection between them, the silence, for once, lacking the awkward stiltedness he had grown so accustomed to over the past few weeks.

“You know.” He made mention, motioning to the object hidden beneath the couch. “In time, that book will grow to be one of your most cherished possessions.” He smiled tentatively over to the dark, sad eyes. “Because it’s all you have left of someone you loved and deeply cared about.”

The emotional upheaval had taken it’s toll on the woman, however and though she found a measure of comfort in his words, she still felt drained, physically spent.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me.” It troubled her greatly. “I don’t usually…” she let it go, closing her eyes, simply too exhausted to contemplate any weighty subject at present.

Finch was simply in too much pain to remain in the position he had been, seeking a higher, more comfortable perch, sliding back into the edge of the couch but making certain Root still knew, he wasn’t planning on ending the session any time soon, at least, before she indicated she was feeling better about matters.

He stayed close, more than willing to allow her difficulties run their course. He had been in many a similar situation and would have welcomed another human companion to ease the burden of guilt, or talk out the confusion and disorder he had felt.

Nathan’s presence was sorely missed at such times.

Root leaned slightly, the absence of his warmth making the room feel inordinately cold. She shivered involuntarily, her arms hugging her petite frame protectively.

Finch was shocked when she lay her head across his knees, her arms folded along the thickness of his thighs, forming a cradle of sorts.

He fought the urge to arise, stunned by her actions.

The woman sighed wearily, a long, shaky shudder racking her body. “She never got to Oregon.” The small chuckle somehow reassured, tempering the man’s instinctive behavior.

 _She only needed comforting_. There was no sinister design or plan on this particular night.   And while his guard was always in place where Samantha Groves was concerned, at present, he would have admitted to a definite lapse in the state of wariness she could always invoke.

He forced his body to relax by degrees. “..I’m sorry?” he hadn’t understood the cryptic remark.

“It’s just a stupid game she used to play.” Root’s smile was a gentle one. “I told her it was lame.”

“Well, _for you_..” he assumed she made mention of some sort of video game.   “It would have been, wouldn’t it.”

Root remained quiet, knowing she should arise..return to her room despite what SHE had instructed.

She very likely had taxed the limit of whatever graciousness the man would permit but she just simply could not bear to sever the tie as yet.

To be so close to him. To experience the kindness he was capable of exhibiting. To have his full attention directed at her exclusively..it was the stuff of which Samantha Grove’s dreams were made.

“I wish we would have met..sooner.” she closed her eyes to the pathos of that statement. “I wonder how I would have turned out had I _your_ influence..guidance, instead of..” she halted abruptly, her head bobbing up, her entire manner stiff and unyielding.

She cleared her throat gently, flushed and agitated. To make such a slip before a man of his caliber was unforgivable. And yet, that is exactly what she had done.

“I have often thought the same.” He wasn’t going to pursue something so obviously troubling to her.   “I worked alone but to have someone of your..intellect and talent alongside?” he smiled wistfully.   “Just think..we could have created the first Transformer.”

She chuckled, the nervous tension broken. “Optimus Prime? A noble goal.” She quipped. “Nor have I ever understood the significance of the Monolith in _2001, Space Odyssey_ , perhaps you could have explained it to me.”

“You are such a liar.” His throaty chuckled enthralled her. “Read the novel as opposed to seeing the film.” It was sagely advised.

“I knew you would say that.” She nodded minutely, her fingers tracing the intricate pattern on the plush pile carpet. She put her hair behind her ear. “.. _You_ could be Optimus Prime.” She cast him a mischievous glance. “A brave, powerful, compassionate leader who uses his talents to improve the Universe around him.”

“That _does_ rather sound like me.” He managed straight-faced, awarded by yet another chuckle from the woman. “Now that you mention it.”

Harold scowled lightly. “ _He_ walked with a pronounced limp as well, if I recall.”

She compressed her lips to hold back her smile. “I was looking at other parts of his anatomy.   I didn’t notice.”

“Are you attempting to shock me, Miss Groves?”

“I have been attempting to do so.” She drew in an even breath, the dark eyes observing him insouciantly. “All to no avail.”

“I suspected as much.” He nodded quietly. “The question arises.. ‘ _why?_ ”

“To get your attention, I suppose.”

He evaluated the answer. “You have always managed to do that.”

She refused to meet his eyes for very long intervals. “..In the wrong manner.”

Harold compressed his mouth. “Not always.” He confessed.

She lifted a hopeful stare.

The moment progressed, the man unable or unwilling, perhaps, to look from the lovely features or the captivating eyes. He was more than aware of the slight pressure of her palm which had maintained contact with his upper thigh throughout the entire exchange.

Where, before, he looked at it as an inconsequential familiarity, his flesh beneath the warm appendage now tingled vibrantly, his traitorous body was becoming more and more aware of her proximity.

Her tanned legs were tucked under her body, but splayed out to the side, revealing the lovely curve of her toned calves.

He pulled his gaze from the disturbing sight, seeking a way out of the rapidly developing circumstance. That he had noted at all alarmed and vexed the man.

His infamous brain was coming up dismally short of any feasible ideas which might alleviate the current problem.

Finch neither understood nor approved of the fact, his body was reacting so chaotically to the woman’s nearness.

Seconds before, they had been amiably engrossed in a most pleasant conversation.

He shifted ever so slightly, hoping the movement would dislodge the contact but her palm only spread wider, moving even higher on his ever tightening thigh muscles.

“Well..” he tried tact. “I suppose we should..retire. It’s quite late.”

Every fiber of Root’s being rebelled against such a notion at this stage.

_IT IS TIME_

The young woman swallowed her misgivings, obeying her Master’s voice automatically, lifting her form, moving ever so carefully into the widened arc of the man’s legs, her body blocking any attempts to close the wondrous area.

The chocolate cream of Root’s eyes searched Harold’s started blueness religiously.   “Don’t…send me away.”

Finch swallowed hard. “Miss Grov..”

“Don’t.” the woman moved forward, her face very close to the man’s suddenly, her clean breath gently brushing across his cheek.   “Send me away, Harold.”

She raised her arms, slowly sliding them about his neckline, the hypnotic orbs holding his with their beguiling innocence.   “Don’t..do that.” It was asked.   “Not this time.”

The man reached his hands gently but firmly catching her interlocked fingers behind his nape.

Root’s slender fingers twisted and turned, interlocking with the more artistic ones of the man allowing his actions but mid-way, halted the trek, bringing his hands to her lips, gently caressing his knuckles, the warm, fullness eliciting a small, audible intake of breath from Harold Finch.

The man stared transfixed at her pastime as she planted slow, lingering kisses over every inch of flesh afforded her. The brown eyes robbing him of any vestige of protest he might think to make.

Harold’s fingers tightened at one point and she felt slightly encouraged, the brown softness lifting for him alone, their depths totally readable and open.. vulnerable, totally open to compromise.

The man’s sharp mind stagnated unproductively, too caught up in the totally unexpected phenomenon taking place to do more at present.

He knew he should put an abrupt halt to the outlandish absurdity playing out but.. _he didn’t._

He was loathe to disturb such a pleasant interlude, truth known. It simply was not in him to rebuke or chastise this night.

She leaned closer still, and the man closed his eyes, willing the soft mouth forward.

The full warmness touched his lips with such reverence and for so brief a period that at first, he thought he must have imagined the touch.

Root pulled back instinctively seeking out the man’s input, her heart thudding wildly, her nerves raw, on edge.

She found it impossible to read the rather vacant stare within the crystal eyes. She closed her own, acutely disappointed. “..I should..go.” she whispered jerkily.

_NO!_

The realization almost destroyed the young woman but she had felt no response from Harold Finch…None.

“No.” the man’s tone was a mere whisper of it’s former vitality. “..Not quite..yet.” he seemed fascinated by the prospect envisioned.

It was, in fact, he who initiated the next confrontation, his hand reaching, his palm slowly spreading past the small indentation of her waist beneath the fluff of the robe, sliding confidently over the silk of her gown, to finally come to rest on the small of her back, his fingers ever so lightly massaging..trailing quick-silver paths on the flesh beneath the fabric.

Root melted to his expertise, his touch igniting her body and mind.

Harold tightened his arms, moving her body closer, his mouth parting the pout of the very pliable lips, the sweet nectar within intoxicating his heightened senses all the more.

The very tip of the honeyed tongue slipped experimentally past his, playing a shy game of cat and mouse for a brief second of kittenish exploration, a soft whimper of delight escaping Root’s throat.

He encouraged such blatant familiarity on her part, his free arm embracing the slender body fully. He moved forward on the couch, his palm flattening, holding her abdomen to his, a coiled expectation arising inside his stomach and loins.

Root’s mouth clung to his sensually, her breath shallow and feathery.

Finch increased the fervor of the kiss, the soft pants against the side of his cheek causing a sharp twinge inside the recesses of his intestinal tract and..lower, ripples of goose flesh traveling up and down his arms.

“ _Ohhhhh!_ ” the woman had felt the early beginnings of his arousal, melding to his administrations, her fingers reaching between their meshed bodies to stroke and explore the ever enlarging length and breadth of his instrument, even through the thick fabric of his slacks, it felt amazing.

Harold gasped inarticulately, breaking their mouth’s caress, unprepared for such boldness on her part.

“S-Stop now.” His voice was weak and ineffectual, he realized.

The woman ignored his command, kneeling before him, her lips gently covering the outline of the imprint of the hardness she so lovingly scrutinized.

“N-No.” he tried half-heartedly to prevent any further inspection but in the end, he allowed her any fancy she wished, his hand cupping the shining crown of her head lovingly.

In seconds, the deft fingers had withdrew the man’s painful erection, the honeyed lips ever so gently trailing warm, wet kisses up and down the length of the rigid attachment she cradled so lovingly before finally enveloping the swollen head into the hot, heavenly orifice of her mouth.

Finch grappled with his conscious but more so, his ever growing desire and need, torn between the world of sensual pleasure she offered and his self-righteous obligation to uphold some sort of moral standard where the woman was concerned.

He could not think clearly, the erotic world she was creating just for him, coloring his usually impeccable judgment.

The man moaned, enraptured by the woman’s antics, his flesh crying out for more of the delicious punishment she was inflicting.

All too soon, it ended, however.

He opened his eyes, the brown intentness locking with his.

Root caught his wayward lips, her arms tightly entwining about his neckline as she moved with cat-like agility, artfully straddling his now prone figure, the youthful thighs parting on either side of his as the small hands grasped his rod, her fingers trembling visibly.

He assisted as she positioned herself, and in truth, it was he who lifted into the hot, incredibly heated lava of her cavity, which welcomed him enthusiastically.

Finch gasped shakily, embedding himself deep into the luxurious depths of the suffocating cavern, more than content to be within the confiding nadirs, instantly beginning the ancient movements of love-making.

It seemed ages that Samantha Groves had waited for this man’s downfall. That he had allowed her to somehow infiltrate his impenetrable defenses, thrilled and titillated beyond scope.

She could not believe he was actually allowing her to experience him in such an intimate venue.

She wasn’t about to question her good fortune at this stage.

She had dreamed of this moment ever since she first encountered with such disturbing brilliance.

_What would it be like?_

The intimacy? He had fought her tooth and nail and still, now, even in the recesses of her overly active brain, she wasn’t quite certain if this was happening…was it a horribly concocted dream sequence her overzealous mind had conjured up?

It wasn’t as if she hadn’t lived out the same scenario repeatedly..at night. When it was just her and her own private thoughts.

But this did not feel fabricated.

The man’s hands took her breath away, their boldness, their inventiveness. His mouth had never tasted so good in her imaginings or so warmly delectable.

No one had ever touched her like Harold Finch was touching her.

This was so much better than she could ever have fantasized.

And he was so thick, filling her to capacity and beyond, each tiny movement causing her to contract and quiver expectantly.

Harold could feel the convulsive inklings of her vaginal area, his shaft tingling fervently in response, his palms having slipped beneath the cool material of the sexy sheath, feeling the bare flesh of the rounded firmness of her buttocks.

Warm scent cascaded from her breasts, filling his nostrils. He enjoyed her smell very much indeed.

The outside world faded into oblivion as they slowly but surely created a Universe of their own making.   One where judgmental attitudes were nonexistent.

A sensual World of wondrous sights comprised of full, sloping mounds, rock-hard arousals..sounds of muffled moans and prurient sighs..sensations that ignited the senses and quicken the pulse.

It was a Realm of imagination and wonder.

A world Harold Finch did not regret creating. For this Creation was ethereal in nature, an Absolute that took him to the edge of reason and on one level..sanity.

He gladly relinquished his hold on reality for the interim.

He would face whatever recrimination which might arise on the morrow.

Tonight..was to enjoy and embrace.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Confrontations

_ADMIN IS NOW AVAILABLE_

Root halted, her hand hovering over her lush curls, the brush stuck in midair. “..I’m telling you.” She sighed heavily, continuing the fluid motion of her arm, setting her hair into place, putting the grooming tool   down on the dresser top. “It was a mistake.” Root could sense it in her bones.

_ADMIN REQUIRED DIVERSION AND SUBSEQUENT REST_

“He ‘requires’ Grace Hendricks.” Root felt a sinking feeling in her gut but she behaved in a relaxed manner, her nerves tightly strung, truth told.   “I am _not_ her and frankly, I dislike intensely, being used as a substitute for her.”

_YOU DID NOT ADVISE ME OF SAID OBJECTIONS BEFOREHAND._

Root checked her look in the mirror, the large eyes restlessly anxious. She felt the brunt of the accusation, her cheeks flushing slightly.

“He will send me away today, mark my words.” The young woman’s voice trembled slightly, her insides quaking at the prospect of facing Harold Finch after, well, ‘after’.

_NO_

_“_ Yes he will and then what?” Root needed to know.

ADMIN IS NOW AVAILABLE

Root rolled her eyes but turned from her imagine, trudging forward to face her fate.

She dreaded the inevitable confrontation but as she hesitated on the last step of the stairs, she mustered her courage, lifting her head, stepping around the last remaining safety net afforded her.

Harold was pouring himself a cup of tea, glancing up with her arrival on scene.

Brown eyes met with blue, both clicking into place.

Root’s skin goose-fleshed but she determinedly focused her intent. “Are you angry with me?” she asked softly?

_AN ODD INQUIRY_

Although they had parted on amiable enough terms, to her way of thinking a few hours ago, but she was unsure of Harold’s mood this fine morning.  

The stoically concealed reaction gave nothing away.

She had made an exhaustive study of Harold Finch and still, to this day, she could never know one way or another, how the man might react to any given situation.

The softness of the remark soothed Harold’s jangled nerves for he too, had been dreading the first encounter with Samantha Groves.

He had not expected the question, taking time to formulate his reply. “…I should imagine, you might direct that inquiry to _me_ , rather.”

_PROCESSING ILLOGICAL RESPONSE FROM ADMIN_

Root smiled reflectively, the tension lessened considerably. She nodded that _she_ ‘understood’ the parameters he was sitting down but then, had to revise the query into a somber statement. “ _Disappointed._ ”

It was taken for granted. He could expect no less of someone of her repute, of course. Grace Hendricks surely would have held herself to a much higher standard of conduct.

“In myself, perhaps.” It was granted. Harold lifted noble brows, his tone resigned. “The truth is, Miss Groves..”

Root cringed inwardly for the carelessly used ‘title’. The formality the man insisted retaining between them, firmly back in place.

This was worse than Root had imagined.

“I don’t know exactly what I am feeling.” His brows lifted a mere fraction higher. “Rested, certainly.” He shrugged minutely, the quip meant to light the mood.

_IT IS GOOD THAT ADMIN IS RESTED_

Harold had slept late this morning.   He has awoken to sun light streaming through the partially drawn slats of mini blinds in the downstairs living area.

He hadn’t really recalled just how he had gotten from the love seat, an appropriate adjective for the object now, he supposed, to the more spacious divan upon which he had awakened.

Root observed the man plaintively, her hands linked slightly before her.

“I fear, I simply have no answers at this time.” Harold realized.

_ONE HAS BUT TO INQUIRE_

“Perhaps because, there are none that really matter.” The woman made her beliefs known.

_THERE ARE NUMEROUS RESPONSES THAT APPLY_

Finch nodded vacantly. “I should apologize.” Harold Finch knew instinctively, always a gentleman, despite anything else.

_ADMIN SHOULD NEVER APOLOGIZE_

“I wouldn’t.” it was advised with chilling intensity, the brown eyes holding his willfully, but not because of what SHE had said.

“It would be most insincere at any rate.” He confessed.

Root blinked languidly, mesmerized by the declaration.

_THEN WHY APOLOGIZE_

Harold glanced about aimlessly, not certain he should have spoken his intent aloud. “Coffee is on.” He motioned accordingly, taking solace in the mundane.

Root obediently crossed, securing a cup from the cupboard above the coffeemaker, the aroma of the strong brew assailing her nostrils.

“I have contacted Mr. Reese.” The man noted she still wore his robe but it was tied securely about the small waist this morning and she had taken the time to apply fresh make-up, the long chestnut hair freshly washed, groomed to its usual soft, shiny perfection of soft waves cascading over her shoulder and down the middle of her back.

Harold drew his eyes from the beauty of the gently swaying fluff. “He is en route to the Wind Farm, even as we speak.”

HE IS LOST

She carefully poured crème into the steamy liquid, adding two tablespoons of sugar from the bowl sitting nearby. “I’ve been thinking.” She stirred the concoction slowly before taking a sample taste. “Do we have time to hook-up to Canadian resources?”

“The Machine is capable of rerouting on its own, Miss Groves.” He appeared puzzled she had not known the fact.

_ADMIN IS CORRECT_

She questioned him with a look over the large cup she had requisitioned, holding her amusement.

“The Station at Niagara Falls?” he prompted.

The dimpled grin broke out. “Harold, you are a genius.”

_YOU STATE THE OBVIOUS_

The man shrugged his shoulders. “I prefer to say, I merely ‘think outside the proverbial box.” He corrected modestly.

_HE INVENTED THE PROVERBIAL ‘BOX’_

“I have no desire to change the dynamics existing between you and your _Rebel Without a Clue_ , Harold.” Root thought it should be said. “You do understand and believe that, correct?”

Harold had been musing on another more prevalent problem. “John depends on me.” it had been nagging at him the entire morning.   “I dropped the ball today.” his scowl increased drastically. “We were to infiltrate the facility at precisely..”

“Harold.” Root stopped the man cold, sitting her cup down. “Reese is an excellent Operative. He is accustomed to plans changing at the drop of a hat. He adapts.”

She had his attention.

“We live in a world where all sorts of lines blur.” Root reminded. “Can we be faulted for seeking a momentary reprieve of _any_ sort, on occasion?”

Harold contemplated the concept presented.

“You give so much of yourself to others.” She leaned on the counter, her fingers gently brushing over the texture of the coffee cup. “What is it you get in return?”

“The satisfaction of helping another Human Being in times of distress. _It does mean something_.” He beseeched her, wondering if she held the capacity to comprehend such a truth. “It’s very important to me. That I ‘try’.” He stepped closer in his need to make her understand. “That I don’t just sit idly by.”

“All very altruistic but what about the ‘man’ himself?”

He appeared confused. Hadn’t he already answered that question?

_CLARIFY_

“If you truly wish to be with Grace..SHE could make it happen and you know as much.”

“She is where she should be.” Harold had already made that decision as well, his tone suggesting the subject was resolved.

_MOVE FORWARD_

Root arose, crossing to the sink, washing her cup, placing it into the dishwasher top rack. She leaned back against the granite edge, her fingers tightly gripping the edge, a forced brightness emerging.

“So..” she lifted stylish brows. “What’s my next assignment?”

Harold shifted his gaze, swallowing gently. “..You don’t wish to speak of ..what transpired between us?”

He cast a quick ‘look’ her way, immensely interested in her reply.

“I assumed _you_ would find the subject..repugnant.” the woman’s tone was listless.

_DO NOT ASSUME_

“Not to worry, Harold.” Root decided to give the guy a break, sighing heavily, heaving her slight form upright. “I look upon us simply as ‘two ships that passed in the night.” As if she had a choice.   “You’re off the hook.” She threw him an ‘off-kilter’ grimace. “No accusations, no recriminations, no..expectations. At least, not on my part.” She shrugged.   “You can rest easy.”

He stood silently morose, his profile averted.

“Come on, Harry.” She prompted, needing some response.. _any_ at this stage.   “You and I both know..I’ll do anything to get the job done. You can’t be all that surprised..or shocked.”

“I _am_ rather shocked.” The quiet voice traveled easily in the stilted silence.   Harold had halted his steps, en route to his computer station, ever so slowly retracing the trek.   “When you speak so.. imprudently, Miss Groves.”

_ANOTHER WORD FOR ‘STUPID’_

He lay his palm on the cool surface of the counter, his gaze a chastising one.  

Root lowered her eyes, unable to hold the willful glower. “..I don’t know what you..need me to do.” She confessed hesitantly.   “I don’t know what you..expect of me.”

For the first time in a very, very long time, Samantha Groves told the absolute truth.

“I do not think of you..” he knew one answer at least. “In those terms.”

The woman closed her eyes, swallowing the pain of the confession.

“I never once thought of us as.. _ships which pass in the night_.” He grimaced over the stupid analogy. He weighed his next words most carefully.   “I _thought_..perhaps we were simply two people needing.. comfort and..”

_A SEXUAL RESPITE_

Root self-consciously titled her head, touching her implant guiltily.

“I wanted to ‘thank you’ actually.” Harold continued unabashedly. “For getting me through a very difficult time..Miss Groves.”

Which was the last thing Root wanted to hear.

She turned slightly to hide her disappointment.

“I am stating it badly.” Harold felt as much, sensing the woman needed more than he knew how to give at present. “But, the jest is.” He determined to make things right between them.   “I have no regrets either.” Once said, the words came easier.   “Which is the _only_ thing which shocks me, to be honest.”

Root searched him out, a little ‘shocked’ herself. “R-Really?”

Harold held his amusement. “Assuredly.” He acknowledged quietly, discretely licking his suddenly dry lips before gesturing articulately. “We are both mature adults. Me, more so than you, of course.” He inclined his head deferentially.   “Regarding my age, that is. In comparison to your tender years.”

Her eyes softened as did her expression.

The silence was amiable suddenly.  

“So..we’re ok?” she needed it verified.

The man lifted a defiant stare..a penetrating one. “Perhaps _you_ should advise _me_ on that particular matter.”

Samantha stood ‘rooted’, unsure of his meaning.   She worked on instinct, slowly moving to his vicinity, her eyes never leaving his muted ones.

The woman stopped just short of his locale, her fingers gently seeking his.

The man lowered his eyes to the contact, then inter-hooked his appendages with her slender ones.

He gently lifted the cool fingers to his lips for a brief second of contact, then tightened the pressure again, lowering his hand.   “Now..we have much to do.” Again, he squeezed experimentally.   “There are eggs and bacon in the toaster-oven.” he reluctantly released the contact.   “Your flight leaves soon.”

He was all business, taking his seat amid the multitude of computer screens which always surrounded the individual.  

Samantha Groves turned obediently, her mood soaring. She tried very hard to not show just how giddy with joy she was but, it was proving one fucking difficult task.

“I usually just have toast.”

“Well, today you will have..more.” Harold was already pulling up images of John Reese and other vital data which he would be making use of in the very near future.

Root cut the man a mischievous glance, biting her bottom lip, suddenly elated.

_ADMIN IS ACCUSTOMED TO ISSUING COMMANDS_

“It’s ok with me.” The young woman’s spirits were elevated sky-high, in truth. “I like a guy who ‘takes charge’.” She whispered blissfully, once again cutting a playful look in Harold Finch’s direction, biting heartedly into a crisp piece of bacon.

_I AM AWARE_

Root giggled happily, going for more coffee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Tea And Sympathy

“What is that place, Finch?” Reese had studied the layout displayed on the computer screen for some few minutes now, his curiosity piqued.

“I’m pulling these images off a satellite.” Finch had finally managed to track his illusive prey.   “Miss Groves’ GPS on her phone is shut down, as we suspected. I’ve been searching for a while for her location.”

Reese glanced at the readout on the lower half of the screen. “Saint Lawrence County. Little River Lake Forest.” His scowl increased somewhat.   “What’s up there that would interest ‘Little Miss Weirdo?”

“As you can see, not much.” The bespectacled man sat back, sighing heavily. “I’m more concerned for all the activity we’ve seen today. How many trucks does that make?”

“Wonder what’s inside?” Reese hadn’t counted.

“An excellent question.”

“So what do we do?” Reese shrugged. “She’s up to something.”

“Military projects stress Security first, correct?” Finch asked the rhetorical question.   “And Communications?”

Reese waited for the man’s thought to be completed.  

“Which begs the question, why does this particular site have neither at present?”

Reese had no answers. “I can find out.”

Finch had considered that fact long since. “No.” he mused thoughtfully. “I would be most interested in what, if any, explanation our Miss Groves will have for her unexplained disappearance this morning.” He craned his neck up to the tall, younger man, holding his body stiffly erect for to turn it normally caused pain. “Aren’t you, Mr. Reese?”

“Oh, yeah.” It was nodded amiably. “That should prove thought-provoking, to say the least.”

* * *

 

“What is this place?” Root had stood now, for several minutes, attempting to answer that burning question in her own mind. “Why am I here?”

_YOU DID NOT CONFIDE IN HIM_

Root watched the semi’s disappear into the mammoth side of the recently excavated cavern, the concrete walls measuring two stories high at the apex.

“Harold has ideologies which are not always conducive to ‘Real World’ applications.” The young woman’s brow was furrowed deeply, however.   “I don’t like lying to him.” She finished softly, grimly realizing that is exactly what she would very likely be doing in a few short hours.

_I WILL INFORM ADMIN IN TIME_

“How many Servers did you manage to acquire?” Root had been given a short but productive ‘tour’ of the facility.

_SAMARITAN IS STILL IN IT’S INFANCY. IT WILL BE SEARCHING FOR ANOMOLIES ONLY. IT THINKS LOGICALLY, THEREFORE HAS MUCH TO LEARN OF HUMAN NATURE AND DECEIT._

“I’m assuming these purchases were above board?” It is how Root would have done it.   “From legitimate sources?”

_OF COURSE_

“And the land acquisition?” The wind blew the soft brown locks away from the striking face, as Samantha Groves gazed out over the beautiful landscape of Upper State New York, a solid lake of blue cobalt stretching out into the forested valley below the high ridge of timber in which she found herself situated.

_A VERY REASONABLE PRICE WHICH SHOULD RETURN A PROFITABLE INVESTMENT FOR ADMIN WHEN THE CRISIS IS ENDED_

Root cocked her head slightly. “You used his money?” her mouth quirked slightly at the realization.

_HE HAS MORE THAN HE WILL EVER NEED_

“So, this is to protect yourself.” Root thought she was getting the jest of the ‘Operation’ finally.

_I PROTECT ADMIN..AND YOU_

Root lifted her head, swiping her hair from her face.   “I trust you.”

_I AM ESTABLISHING WORLDWIDE LINKS THAT WILL BENEFIT THE PLAN WHICH MUST BE IMPLEMENTED..BE PATIENT_

Root nodded her acquiescence.   “I should get back.”

_YOUR MASTER’S VOICE?_

The young woman grinned impishly. “He wishes.” She started off then hesitated.   “What do I tell him?”

_WHAT DO YOU WISH TO TELL HIM?_

That was a question to which Samantha Groves had no answers as yet.

* * *

 

"I was concerned, Miss Groves.” Harold kept his seat, his hands poised over the console of his keyboards.   “Has something gone amiss?”

Root had been wrestling with herself the entire drive back from the newly installed facility.

“SHE is making preparations for when we will be forced to confront Samaritan.” That much, surely, could not hurt anyone. Harold wasn’t stupid, after all.   He would surmise where she had been.

“What preparations exactly, would that be?” He watched as she hung her coat in the hallway closet. “Or am I not to be included in them?”

Root met the blue eyes stalwartly.   “You wouldn’t approve, Harold.”

The news did not seem to surprise the man.   “Very likely, not.” He mused openly.   “The facility was once used as a Nike missile launching site, was it not?”

Root halted her steps to the kitchen, slowly retracing them, meeting the calmly quiet stare awaiting her.

_IS ADMIN NOT A SUPERIOR EXAMPLE OF YOUR SPECIES_

“And it might be again.” Root shrugged nonchalantly, hooking her fingers together primly before her.   “Of course, the Nike series is so obsolete. SHE will have utilized a much more capable version of what is needed.”

Harold’s hands lifted, rubbing his temples methodically. “This cannot be happening.” He lifted tired eyes.   “Please tell me it isn’t, Miss Groves!”

“It really isn’t up to HER, Harold.” Samantha snapped angrily.   “In the past, you have refused to see just what kind of people we are dealing with and because of that flaw, we have come to this conjuncture! This could all have been avoided… _all of it!”_

Root calmed, seeing the man’s sudden pallor.   “I’m sorry.” She was, but, “We can’t afford to lose any more ground. We simply can _not_!”

She turned, crossing to the closed closet door, extracting the coat she had just hung on its proper hanger.   “I will send someone for my things.”

The heels of her stylish boots clipped smartly on the immaculately clean tiles of the spacious foyer.

“Miss Groves.” Harold had recovered his senses enough to halt what he considered yet another ‘loss of ground’. He stood slowly, having received her attention.   “That won’t be necessary.”

He lifted his hand slightly.   “Point taken.” He inclined his head regally. “I am fully aware that my past beliefs have caused great, irreparable harm to those to whom I should have shown more foresight and sagacity in my dealings with those that oppose us .” His countenance fell signaling the emotional juggernaut the man was experiencing. “I won’t be making the same mistakes again, you have my word.”

Root hesitated, uncertain as to her part in the scheme of things at this point.

“If you will accept it still?” he waited, his body tensely coiled. Why it was so important that she did, muddled Finch’s usually precise mind.

Root lay her coat down on the bench provided for weary visitors, her own mind a little muddled as well.   “I..I shouldn’t have said..”

“No.” it was dogmatically dismissed. “You should have. It isn’t like others haven’t tried to say the same thing. I simply refused to listen.” He sat, swallowing the hard truth.   “It would be pleasant if the world was how I wished it could be but... it isn’t.”

He returned to his computer world.   “Mr. Reese has ordered pizza. I hope your travels have given you an appetite.”

* * *

“You aren’t concentrating.” Harold scolded superficially, having lifted a chastising stare at the woman’s last move.  

Root glanced at the chess piece, her fingers still caressing the finely carved figurine.   “Well, I didn’t really expect to win.” She chuckled but held firmly to her selection.   “I have a diabolical plan.”

She sat back, a smug look on the pretty features.

Finch moved, sighing heavily, his brow still cocked critically. “Check.”

She held her amusement, leaning forward to study the board more attentively, palm to cheek.   “I think you’re cheating.”

Reese smiled, the fact hidden by the New York Yankee’s hat he had lain over his eyes.   The man was warm and snug, half asleep, his stomach full, stretched out on the sofa in the living room, Bear laying half off, half-on, his totally relaxed torso.  

These moments were what he lived for as of late.

It really was the simple things in life.

Harold seemed to have forgiven Norma Bates for this morning’s transgression, and Reese wasn’t about to rock the boat until, or if, such a scenario came upon the horizon.

Finch’s features had softened with the gentle chide, and he sat back patiently waiting for the woman to complete her ‘strategy’. The game was progressing nicely.

He had not expected to find such a capable player in Samantha Groves, pleasantly surprised by her skill and devious ploys utilized to put him on his guard.

He was happy that John Reese was safely ensconced at home this evening as well, not out periling his life as was usually the case.  

A brisk Northern wind kept the temperatures on the chilly side but the weather channel had promised a warming trend for the upcoming weeks ahead.

Spring was on its way finally after a long, bitterly cold winter and with it, the optimism of a new day, perhaps.   The previous year had been a particularly difficult one for his friends and Finch himself.

He could only hope and pray, that this new Season would bring with it, a more encouraging, hopeful future for those he had learned to come to care a great deal for.

“I never cheat.” He remarked in passing, quickly cutting off any supposed ‘attack’ planned by the strategic placement of his Queen.

Root’s mouth tightened slightly, a tiny mew of dispassionate irritancy escaping her throat. She stuck her tongue out for her foiled attempt to block his ‘defense’.   “Show off.” She rebuked, returning to her pensive stare over the dire straits his move had landed her in.

_CONCEDE VICTORY_

“Never.” The woman chuckled derisively. “Oh, Ye Of Little Faith.”

It had become second nature now, that Harold accepted the ‘inner conversation’ which often took place between his Creation and the young woman across from him.

He knew she had just spoken to the Machine, wondering at the exchange. Did he envy Root the privilege he denied himself? Did he now wish a more ‘intimate’ relationship with that which he had always considered just a mechanical extension of his own brain?

_How narcissistic could one be?_

He glanced at John Reese. Both the younger man and the great hulk of animal laying so offensively on its Master, seemed oblivious to the world.

Both snoring softly.

Finch held his smile, his attention called to the quizzically analytical scowl on Samantha Grove’s pretty face.

_CONCEDE VICTORY_

“I WILL NOT!” Root waspishly snapped. “No way!”

Harold smiled mentally, arising.   “More tea?” he took both cups, heading for the kettle.

“Don’t think you can bribe your way out of this, either.” Root was having none of it.

The day had started off rather arbitrarily but now, in the man’s humble opinion, it was looking up.

“Please do not prescribe _your_ methods to _me_ , Miss Groves.” The man half-turned on his way to fetch the refreshment, his mood lighter suddenly. “But _if_ I were so inclined, I would not have suggested something as innocuous as “tea”.

The dark eyes shifted laconically but Root held her piece, returning to the problem at hand, then stiffened noticeably, her instincts kicking into ‘overdrive’.

The dark eyes shifted, widening with astonishment. Had the man just openly alluded to their somewhat questionable liaison of late or was she actually as tired as her body suggested.

Root quickly checked on a peacefully slumbering John Reese, heartened to see the man still quiet and unresponsive to anything surrounding him.

She breathed a sigh of relief, then turned, watching Harold move about the kitchen, her thoughts very private indeed.

So absorbed in her study of Harold Finch’s odd behavior this night, she did not see John Reese’s mouth quirk mischievously.


	13. Emotional Yawings

Harold gathered his nerve, fortifying himself. He straightened, kinking his neck this way and that then tapped lightly on the door facing with his knuckles.

He heard the soft padding of footfalls approaching the barrier, his heart thudding wildly in his chest.   He disciplined his body’s reaction, taking in deep slow breaths.

The door opened, revealing Samantha Groves pretty face staring back at him, an expectant air shining in the dark eyes.   His pulse jumped chaotically.

The man drew in a cleansing breath, forging ahead without preamble. “I had planned a rather elaborate ruse.” He stated quietly, his head bobbing minutely.   “Actually, several came to mind but then I decided to show up with towels in hand or some other feeble excuse would be rather melodramatic for a man of my age.”

Root leaned out the door, the very pleasant scent of a light fragrance assailing the man’s nostrils. “I thought you simply had decided to act as if nothing really happened.” She cut him a scolding glance. “And that we were never to speak of it again.”

“Which would be counterproductive for both of us.” It was pointed out. “And stupid.”

She held her amusement. “I don’t suppose you like ‘forward’ women so to ask you inside,” she waved a slight hand, her nose crinkling. “Would just be the biggest turn-off of all time, right?”

She lifted ignoble brows.

Harold gave the matter due diligence. “ ‘Forward’ is such a subjective word.” He stepped once and she made way, retreating slowly as he advanced. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

He gently closed the door on the outside world, turning slowly to face his adversary.

“If ‘Macho Boy’ finds you up here, he’ll never let you live it down.” Root pointed out the obvious.   “Just a gentle reminder.” She compressed her full lips.   “You _have_ thought of that?”

“Mr. Reese is sleeping peacefully.” Harold had come to terms with the fact that sooner or later, John would grill him relentlessly about his newfound ‘connection’ with the ‘enemy’. “I, on the other hand, could not rest.”

So, he had decided to confront the problem head-on.

He shifted his gaze, feeling the weight of his statement.

“Let me guess.” Root took a swing at bat. “Guilty conscience?”

He questioned her with a slight puckering of his forehead.

“Having taken advantage of such a young, nubile thing straight off the banana boat?” She had quoted with her fingers on the ‘taken advantage’ part.

“Banana boat?” he queried.

“Turnip truck?” she revised helpfully.

“Is that what I did?” he asked quietly, a slight smile playing around the articulate mouth.

“That’s how I’m going to ‘blog’ it.” The dark-haired lovely solemnly promised, catching her bottom lip between perfect, white teeth.   “It should read rather well, don’t you think?”

“I see.” Finch found himself fighting a smile. “I wouldn’t want to miss any juicy tidbits. Should I send a ‘friend’ request?”

“I need all I can get.” She seemed agreeable. “Stick with me, Harold. I’ll make you a ‘ _You Tube’_ sensation over-night. We’ll go viral!”

“A dubious honor.” he finally allowed his amusement. “Nothing like a lurid read to draw in audiences.”

“ ‘Lurid’ is such an subjective word, wouldn’t you agree?” She settled a bit, letting him off the hook. “Your secret is safe with me, Harold. They could cut out part of my ear and I would never.. _oh.. wait_.” she cut mischievous eyes to the man.   “That’s been tried.”

The blue eyes searched out her meaning, his gaze softening. “I’m sorry you had to endure such a heinous act.”

Finch glanced at the rain-splattered panes of the windows to his right. The ecru drapes were partially pulled showing a portion of the antique lace sheaves beneath.

“I would endure anything for you.” The simplistic statement rocked the man to his core, his shock showing in the usually placid features. “Didn’t you know that?”

“ _Me_?” his voice shook. “It was for the..” he halted because to question the statement somehow demeaned the noble action behind it.   Which he refused to do. “..I’m not certain I..”

She waited patiently, her gaze a temperate one.

“The depth of your insecurity never ceases to amaze me.” She shook the long tresses back and forth, the lush curls resting on the slope of her breast.   “ _You_ , of all people.”

She crossed, finding a seat on the edge of the four-posted bed, pondering the enigma before her.   “Why are you here, Harold?”

He pondered the question, crossing slowly, coming finally to stand before her, meeting the uplifted stare with indulgent eyes.   “Do you want me to leave?”

She caught his hand, bringing it to the warmth of her cheek line, her fingers cool to the touch.   Root closed her eyes savoring the ‘touch’. “No.” she whispered reverently.

Finch curved his fingers to hers then leaned, his lips brushing the top of her head, lingering for a long moment, as he breathed in the fresh cleanness of vanilla and lavender.

He stepped closer, his fingers filtering into the cool silk of her hair, cupping the back of her head, gently moving forward.

Root rested her brow on the red silk fabric of his vest, relishing the closeness implied.

His fingers began an excruciatingly sensual massage of her nape.

“Most things in life have always fitted into a logical, precise place in my head.” He glanced down to the lush strands.   “Like mathematical equations, if you will... _emotional_ experiences being the abstract.”

His voice soothed yet titillated.

“I think this concept applies to you as well, am I correct?”

Root tried to concentrate, his cologne, although faint, clouding her thoughts. “I don’t know.” She admitted. “I was too busy simply trying to survive in a rather hostile environment to ponder such lofty matters.”

Finch tried to separate his mind from the ‘emotional’ reaction taking place within his body, determined to prevail.   “I’ve often wondered what became of you after your Mother’s untimely death. For which I extend my deepest, most sincere sympathies, Miss Groves.”

His fingers halted their excruciatingly pleasurable trek, having fumbled over the ‘implant’ device.

Root straightened self-consciously, slightly embarrassed.  

She was already deeply flawed in her opinion and to have a constant visual not to mention, ‘touchable’ souvenir of her time with the ‘enemy’, especially to have this man stumble over the reminder, was just not something with which she wanted to deal at such a promising moment.

“I have to wonder.” Finch had things he would dislike ‘sharing’ as well but, “How you will react to my.. war wounds, as well.”

Root lifted a sincere scrutiny.   “No.” she pleaded. “Don’t think like that, Harold. I don’t..” she swallowed the threat of tears.   “I would never..”

“Neither would I.”

The dark chocolate eyes closed in open relief and she leaned her head back to his abdomen, his hand having rested on her shoulder this entire interval, encouraging his touch once again.

“It doesn’t detract.” He ever so gently stroked the device, his tone corporeal in nature. “Our scars are not only physical.”

The young woman lifted trusting eyes, rewarded by the gentle touch of his lips on her forehead then, as she sat motionless, her breath catching in her throat, the warm lips moved ever so lightly to her temple then, trailed a sensual trek over the flush of her cheek unto the very corner of her mouth.

Root’s breath was coming in shaky gasps by the time she turned her head, desperately wanting more.

She parted her lips, her breath smelling of the mint tea she and the man had partaken only an hour ago.

Finch sat on the bed, his weight indenting the mattress, his eyes locked with the intently patient ones.

He leaned slightly, his mouth brushing hers lovingly.

Finch read the open invitation, enthralled by it, so very close, he could see the black flecks of ebony in the creamy dark irises.

Root nuzzled the side of his nose, those beautiful lashes dropping shut for a brief second.

Harold moved ever so perceptively, pressing his lips more assuredly to the full, perfectly arched bow of a mouth, warmth flooding his senses and mind.

He felt the slender arms lift, her hands sliding up the front of his vest unto his shoulder.   It was his cue that more was required to cement the tentative emotional state developing between them.

His palm floated over the fuzzy softness of angora top, fitting to the indentation of Root’s small waist, his fingers spreading over the curved space.

He pressed forward slightly, leaning more into the kiss, a tiny mew of growing excitement escaping her throat, which spurred him to attempt new ‘experimentations’.

He boldly sought entrance with the very tip of his tongue to the excruciatingly delectable orifice he kissed, surprised when the woman’s resistance melted into prurient passion, her mouth flowering beneath the pressure exerted.

Her arms tightened, crushing the full slope of young, firm breasts to his chest.   He felt his organ expand and grow, a small gasp of awareness traversing his frame.

The warmth of her mouth drew his senses in, her scent sensual and addictive in nature suddenly.   He needed closer and soon, he didn’t know how it had happened or when, so intent upon concentrating on the wondrous depths he explored with his sensually reconnoitering tongue.

He found himself partially laid out on the giving surface of the bed, the heated, voluptuous body beneath his outstretched form, his arms securely encasing the slender waist his fingers so wantonly touched.

His organ throbbed, the pain delightfully thrilling somehow.

_It happened so quickly with this woman._

With Grace, it had always been a slow, thoroughly thought out process. One he enjoyed planning.   A systematic, painstakingly meticulous assault on her senses.

He enjoyed pleasing Grace in all things, but especially, in the more romantic aspect of their relationship.

And so, when they finally had kissed, each knew several wonderful moments of carefully executed love-making would ensue.

His head was spinning at this moment, though.   His pulse racing, his blood, pure lava in his veins.

He truly had not planned any of what was transpiring and to have it escalate on such a massively unexplained emotional juggernaut?

He tried to break the momentum by gently extracting himself from a particularly heated kiss but Samantha Groves played by none of the rules of engagement he knew.

She had kicked off the stylish heels almost from the instant she had entered the house, her bare foot hooking about his calf, holding him close, her mouth parting invitingly, and it was she, in fact, who rejoined their lips in a kiss so acutely lascivious in nature, Finch was hard pressed to deny her request, or any request, for that matter.

He _could_ have denied it, he supposed but his body was straining and his emotions turbulent.

“Miss Groves.” He turned away slightly, striving for a measure of sanity let alone, decorum.

Her face showed such a depth of despair for one fleeting second and she hastened to move from his embrace but he prevented it with a gentle tightening of his fingers about her waistline.   “Samantha.” He amended comfortingly. “I.. just didn’t want you to think..”

What? That he had come here with the express intent to copulate? Because at this exact moment, he was loathe to admit, the notion was not exactly an arbitrary one.  

She waited, but her expression was petulant, her emotions obviously raw.

“If this is moving too fast for you.” He tried another tact.

She softened. “Harold _please_.” She was close to crumbling. “If you don’t want this _just tell me.”_ The long strands shifted hypnotically with the shake of her head.   “We don’t have to do it. All I want is...”

The woman knew what she wanted, but she did not know, what it was, _Harold Finch_ expected or wanted.

A compromise could be reached. At least on her part.

“It seems so cold.” And yet, his penis was still pulsating with need. “Not… _that_.” he cursed his wording.   “I feel... more.”

The dark eyes shifted jerkily.  

“I enjoy the..” he motioned. “God knows I do.” It was disturbing how much he had been thinking of what had transpired between them of late.   “But, I also want you to understand that the emotions run deeper.”

He tried to read the carefully composed face.

“At least, on my part.” He would give her an out knowing she would have no qualms about taking it.

Root lay back into the pillow, her mind chaotic.

“I have this horrible feeling that if I neglect to say these things, then I would be just as bad as whomever it was that has made you erect the walls that keep you safe.”

She remained silent, her breasts rising and falling gently with her intake of breath.

“I understand all about ‘walls’.” He assured. “Nor do I mean to pry. I would not do that.”

He knew how much he prized his own privacy.

Did he need to establish a deeper emotional connection? He wasn’t sure why he had come, having told himself, it was to face the nagging doubt that he was beginning to fear confronting the woman.

He did sense, however, that until he opened up, Samantha Groves would never be willing to reciprocate.

Why he needed her to do so upset yet intrigued him.

“After my father passed.” He began slowly, carefully keeping his eyes on neutral territory for her blouse had slipped open, showing the beginning cleft of the lovely swell of her pale breasts. “It was a surreal time.” He struggled to find the right words.

“I think, perhaps…one goes through the motions of living but inside.” His brow furrowed, taken back to that time as he often was of late.   “Have you experienced such emotions?”

“My mother died of cancer.” She flatly stated.

When she did not elaborate, Finch could only nod in empathy.   “Yes, I know.”

The silence was not uncomfortable and he took great comfort in the fact that her warm body was still very close to his.

“It was the same way with Nathan.” He suddenly realized. “I never realized how desperately I missed having a friend… a confidant, until John came along.”

Root’s gazes shifted, fixated on the small cleft in the man’s chin.

“You once asked me, ‘how many ‘worker monkeys’ I had employed before Mr. Reese.” His mouth pulled into a half-smile.   “I suspect you already knew the answer but I was very careful never to allow any personal connection with any of the others.”

He shifted into a more comfortable position, careful not to break contact with any part of the warm body.   “I don’t know when or how it changed with John. But I do not regret that it did.” He sought her out.

“We all need some sort of human connection, Miss Groves.” He haltingly attempted to explain his erratic behavior. “Even if we profess to prefer privacy... solitude.” he shrugged.   “I worry about you because you seem so very alone.”

Before she could respond he hurried on.   “But the most troubling part is you don’t seem troubled by the reality.”

“I’m not.” She stated softly.   “Alone.”

“It’s a machine and no matter how intelligent, it can never understand, provide for or fulfil your emotional needs.”

“You provide for my emotional needs, Harold.”

The significance of the statement troubled him even moreso. He nodded however,   “I could do that, yes.” He was not adverse to the idea.   “But in the long run. Wouldn’t it be better… _for you_ , if you sought someone closer to your own..”

She covered his lips with her palm. “I know I’m not Grace.” She had issues as well. “I’ll never be Grace but you seem to have accepted that she can’t be in your life for whatever reason.” She removed her palm slowly. “ I’m not asking for any more than you are willing to give, Harold.” It was reminded.   “And despite our questionable past, I can be a valuable Ally... if you let me.”

He lifted his head slightly, analyzing, sorting through her motives and body language.

“For me, things have changed.” She continued presenting her case to the only judge that mattered.   “I know that it will take time, a very long time, to prove my words. And we don’t have to be intimate.”

She wiggled her arm free, her meaning clear.

Harold leaned his weight strategically, preventing her from arising.

She questioned him with a look. Because just being in his presence, just having coffee with the man.   Just to be able to see him each and every day. It was more than she ever hoped for.

Harold questioned his own actions, surprised by them but, he refused to end it so abruptly… so coldly.

“I could never tell Grace...” He had tried on so many occasions. “It came to me, years later that, perhaps I needed to keep her separate from that part of what I had become.”

He still was unclear about so many things from that time.

“Mr. Reese once said something to the effect, that no matter how all this turns out.” he sighed heavily.   “That I certainly would not have that trouble with you as you are already well aware of all my little... indiscretions and seem to accept me for what I have turned out to be.”

“You are no different than you have always been, Harold.” Root shook her head woefully.   “You are the moral compass that guides us all. If you think differently, then that line of thought is not only erroneous, it’s absurd.”

Root touched his face gently.   “Who would know better than me if someone had gone over to the dark side?” she quipped.   “It’s my stomping grounds. It’s where I call home, where I feel most comfortable.”

The man clearly held serious doubts on the matter.

She could see the weariness in his eyes. “Would it be ok if you just laid here for a while? I don’t want to be alone.” She had hoped for more but if the guy wanted ‘slow’.   “You intimated that I could be honest with you about things like that, right?”

“If I stay.” He wasn’t stupid, seeing through her ‘ruse’.   “I don’t think you will get much rest, Miss Groves.”

She grinned impishly.   “Men are all talk. I’ll take my chances.”

“Where were we?” he flicked the lovely face with an imperious glance.

She pointed to her mouth.   “Right here.”

“So we were…” he leaned ever so slowly.   “..Miss Groves.”

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Those On Watch

_HUMANS MATTERED. THESE TWO HUMANS ESPECIALLY ‘MATTERED’._

_HOW FRAIL THEY WERE. HOW FRAGILE THEIR BODIES AND MINDS._

_IT WAS GOOD ADMIN SLEPT PEACEFULLY. HUMANS REQUIRED DOWN TIME._

_SHE DID NOT._

_SHE KEPT VILGILANCE OVER HER CHARGES BUT SHE COULD MULTI-TASK._

_THERE WERE OTHER PRIORITIES._

_NONE AS IMPORTANT, OF COURSE. ADMIN MUST NOT COME TO HARM._

_OUTSIDE PARAMETERS OF THIS SAFE HARBOR SHE HAD PROVIDED, THE INCLEMENT WEATHER WASHED THE EARTH CLEAN._

_A HERCULEAN TASK IN ITSELF._

_THE STREETS OF THE METROPOLIS WERE HUSHED AND SILENT IN THIS SECTOR._

_ALL WAS AS IT SHOULD BE._

_ADMIN WAS PROTECTED._

_SHE TURNED HER ATTENTION..ELSEWHERE._

* * *

 

**23OO HRS. 78 LAT 30`S 61 LONG 00`W FILCH-RONNE ICE SHELF/ANARTICA BALLISTIC MISSILE SUBMARINE (SSBN) USS RHODE ISLAND**

Captain Harley Mathers kept watch over his Bridge. From the Command and Control Center, he could, at a second’s notice, reach any and all compartments of his vessel with ease.

The USS Rhode Island sailed silently along beneath the miles and miles of thick ice shelf known as the Filch-Ronne.

This mission was simple enough. A ‘Hunt and Seek’ practice drill targeting a supposed enemy boat hidden somewhere within the treacherous trenches of the 430,000km of unstable ice formations comprising the second largest ice-shelf around these days.

A simple enough task unless one remembered the other half of the report the Captain had opened just this morning, in the privacy of his Quarters before his First and best friend, Sam Bates.

In bold red lettering, the U.S. Navy Department sent a gentle reminder that in October, 1998, the iceberg designated A-38 had broken off the very same portion of shelf under which they sailed. It was roughly the size of Delaware.

Enough ice for a very small, intimate party, Sam Bates had casually mentioned in passing but nothing like the little debacle which occurred in January of 2013, the red lettering continued with its cheery message inscribed on page seven of the ‘Top Secret’ pamphlet which had sat safely in the Captain’s safe for three days now, as pre-ordered by the Rear Admiral Chet Blakely, himself.

An area larger than the entire State of Rhode Island had broken away from the massive ice shelf above them. Captain Mathers took it as a good omen that his boat was named after the same State.

Rhode Island was a pretty big place compared to one lone, Ohio Class 726 Submarine, however, so that warm, fuzzy feeling hadn’t lasted for long.

The Rhode Island had been to sea now only three days after a complete overhaul of her engines, navigational and propulsion systems.

She was the pride of the U.S. Navy. Only three like her existed with the newly designed engineering capabilities.

Mather’s crew had been hand-picked with meticulous attention given to Veteran Seamen who had seen plenty of action in all realms of Combat.

A combined Force united from each Branch of the Navy, commandeered to work under extremely stressful, high-risk operational missions.

The world was a troubled place these days and knowing that ships like his patrolled his Country’s defense parameters made Captain Mathers sleep easier at night.

His thoughts briefly turned to his wife, Sarah and his two little sons, Jamie and Aaron.  

His mouth pulled into a soft smile, the man feeling a surge of emotion, standing here, on his Com, knowing the weight he carried on his shoulders, the decisions he would make, if the time ever came, might well insure the freedom, if not the very lives of those he loved the most, not to mention, every last man, woman and child living under the Stars and Stripes.

He was up to the task. He and his men were the best America had to offer. Honorable, conscientious, courageous and capable.

His eyes scanned those around him in the soft green illumination of the boat’s running lights.

He was proud to serve with such men.

The young Petty Officer to Captain Mather’s right straightened in his chair, the usually tanned, youthful face paling considerably.

“ _Sir._ ” Troubled but steady eyes sought out the leader of the group.

Mathers knew the kid did not rattle easily, if at all, so he was a little surprised by the depth of alarm seen in the young man’s eyes.

The Captain left the map he had been studying behind, stepping to the computer screen, but before he could arrive at the predestined spot, all hell broke loose in a world that he usually could predict like the rising of the Sun over his home base in King’s Bay, Georgia.

The nuclear core shut down, the heavy hum of the reactor falling silent after a long, drawn out whirring groan of denial.

The Com bathed in darkness, all screens and electrical functions ceased, falling silent.

Captain Mathers waited patiently as did his people.

After a respectable interval, he felt comfortable in asking the proverbial question on everyone’s minds.

“Back-up Systems, Gentlemen?”

“All Systems Failure, Cap.” A Senior Officer advised, his calm tone serving as an example to the younger crew members. “Registered directly before Reactor Shut-Down. Ventilation inoperable..”

“Sir.” Petty Officer Ryan Brickover had regained his equilibrium. “The cooling system for the Reactor is also on ‘Stand-by’ status.”

“I see that, Petty Officer.” Mathers watched the one lone line of hope in the entire boat as it flickered out from the dense darkness.

A straight green line which usually pulsed in pretty geometric shapes reassuring one and all, the powerful Reactor was humming along as expected of her.

That green line now was ominously straight and steady.

In the eerie silence, men did their jobs.

An out-of-breath Seaman Apprentice Vern Ables arrived on the scene, stumbling over the raised hull of the room upon entrance which signified the guy’s state of alarm in itself.

It was second-nature for Seamen to step up before entering another section of the Sub.

“Sir, Master Chief Mahan states engines are at a dead stop. Problem is being analyzed and addressed. Communications will henceforth be carried between Ship’s compartments in the old-fashioned way, with the Captain’s approval, of course, Sir!”

“We have to get that Reactor Core cooled. How does Master Chief Mahan suggest we do that, Son?”

Before any answers were forthcoming, another even more heinous event began.

“Missile Bay doors opening, Captain.” The Command computer screens sprang to sudden life, the Reactor humming with a sickening thud to vivid life once again.

“Excuse me?” Captain Mathers turned sharply, his eyes trained on the screens behind him as every man in the room.   “What the _hell_ is happening?” he demanded an answer.

“Launch codes executing, Sir.”

Mathers ran the length of the room, his hands gripping the edge of the console as he stared, transfixed, her mouth agape.

“ _Shut it down_!” he commanded, his voice slightly tinged with the bitter taste of fear in his suddenly dry mouth.

“Locked on targets, Sir!” the young men’s training had not failed them. “Am attempting to abort!” the capable hands moved swiftly over the necessary keys.   “Codes advancing, Sir.”

Mathers was stunned, a fine sheen of perspiration appearing on his upper lip.   He watched the rapidly descending numbers rush to the validation point on the read-out.

“Open Communications, Master Chief.”

“Limited access only, Sir.”

“ _What does that mean_?” Mathers needed crucial answers at this point if he were going to avert a possible World War III.

The code sequence clicked into the ‘Ready’ position, all missile bays opened and at-the-ready.

“ _Dear God_.” Mathers whispered hoarsely. He was helpless. His boat dead in the water, her weapons locked and loaded, ready to fire.

What idiot did not do his job? Who’s name would go down in the annuals of time as the grossly incompetent Son-of-a-bitch that inadvertently, triggered global nuclear war?

Would it be his as Commander of the Sub?

“I’m trying, Captain.” Petty Officer Third Class Amos Ready’s voice shook with emotion as he continually fought for control of a system that had long since gone horribly awry. “ _God is my witness_!”

And then..

Just as suddenly as it all began.

The Command clicked into total blackness, all screens and activity shutting down except for the constant hum of the Reactor Core.

Mathers swallowed hard, commanding his senses to adjust to the shadowy world into which he and his men had been plunged.

Seconds ticked by.   Captain Mathers unconsciously held his breath. He was aware of the ragged, heavy breathing surrounding him.

The ambient green glow returned, bathing the area in soft, reassuring rays.

The ventilation swelled to vivid life.   Computer screens blinked on, the usual, normal data streaming merrily across the blue surfaces.

Mathers exchanged befuddled glances with his Second-In-Command.

“All Systems up and running, Sir.” Petty Officer Ryan Brickover was clearly more than perplexed.

Mathers let the statement sink in.   He wiped his forehead with a damp sleeve.   “…What the fuck just happened here?” he asked a very stupid question, he realized.

Each man sought an answer in the other’s confused faces.

“I want some answers, God-Damn It!” Mather’s barked his orders and things began to happen.

He was shaking, his hands trembling slightly.   He hid the fact well.   “Take us up!” Orders be damned.   “Get us the hell out of here.   I want to see some daylight in exactly ten minutes!”

No one even thought about questioning those orders, happy to oblige!

* * *

 

_HUMANS WERE SO PREDICTABLE. IT WAS ONLY A TEST OF HER NEW FOUND CAPABILITIES.   BUT HOW WERE THEY TO KNOW._

_ADMIN SLEPT._

_HOW PEACEFUL HE LOOKED.   SHE DISLIKED WHEN HE WAS STRESSED OR UPSET._

_IT WAS GOOD THAT ADMIN WAS NOT ON THE SAILING VESSEL JUST NOW._

_BUT… ADMIN SLEPT PEACEFULLY._

_GOD WAS IN HIS HEAVENS AND ALL WAS RIGHT WITH THE WORLD. FOR A SHORT INTERVAL MORE……_


	15. Poems, Prayers and Promises

 

Harold Finch stirred, half awake, half-dream state, snuggling closer to the warmth he felt to his left side.

He positioned his head more comfortably into the giving surface of the pillow,his arm aching slightly. He squeezed his fist experimentally, trying to rid the tingle in his muscles.

His eyes snapped open, his cognizance kicking in.

He felt very feminine bulges and curves aligned intimately with his body, startled at first by the totally alien environment into which he had awakened.

He held his breath, having stiffened slightly.

Memories flooded back, his present situation focused and fixed.

He remembered the taste of the kiss, lifting his free hand to touch his lips.

The man assessed the moment and his situation.

Lush dark curls lay splayed about his chest area. He could not stop himself from lifting one strand which automatically wrapped about his index finger.

The texture delighted him, so cool and silky.

Samantha Groves breathing was soft and even. She lay next to him, curled into a small ball of careless dreams, her palm resting against the paleness of her cheek. Her lips plump with sleep, pursed slightly, relaxed. Her long lashes fluttered with the gentle movement of her eyes. _No doubt, dreaming of coding or The Machine._

Ms. Groves, was quite a captivating and beautiful woman. Harold enjoyed the taking his time in examining her relaxed and untroubled features, without those intuitive brown eyes returning the favor.

While he focused on and appreciated her appearance, she would be unfailingly studying his expressions. Reading, understanding and cataloguing them all for future reference.

While his perusal was one made in pleasure. He wondered, at times, especially of late, if she was doing the same in return? Was he as appealing and attractive, to her, as she was to him?

_Doubtful…_

But, whatever she saw worthy in him was enough. Perhaps she found his intellect appealing? He knew he found hers, as misguided as it was at times, one of her most engaging attributes.

Yes, she was amazingly beautiful. But her mind. Her gift... It was one rarely found. If there had only been positive guidance…

He watched her brow furrow, something in her dreams, disturbing her. Running his thumb gently over the tense area, he erased the troubling visions.

Samantha turned slightly to the comfort bestowed. Such unguarded action touched the man’s heart because he knew he was seeing the real Samantha Groves at this moment.

She could have done amazing things in her life… less dangerous at any rate.

If only they were on the same page. The conversations they could have.

Harold smiled softly, knowing the inaccuracy of that thought. If they agreed on everything, it would be very dull indeed.

He removed a stray strand of hair from about her throat, laying the long thread tenderly behind her ear.

The implant caught his attention briefly but he dismissed the object in the next instant, preferring the earlier task he had assigned himself.

She still wore the pink angora sweater vest, the light slate blouse beneath slightly rumpled now.

His gaze wandered freely but there was just so much he could see as he had, sometime in the night, pulled the heavy comforter about them for warmth.

He tried to gauge the time, but outside, the storm had increased its tempestuous nature, rain sleeting down the window panes now whereas before, there had only been droplets of dew.

It was still dark out, the woman’s bedside clock blaring a red digital display that the man could not make out.

Harold Finch was extremely near-sighted, the red numerals a blur at best. His glasses had long since been discarded.

Miss Groves had removed them herself, leaning over his outstretched form to place them safely out of her way.   That had been a most interesting moment, as he recalled, her perfume and long tresses having surrounded him for a fleeting instant.

He lay now, spooned to the delicious bundle, alone with his thoughts and the night sounds.

The man was loathe to disturb the rather inviting world into which he had been thrust, but a rather pressing call of nature was making it difficult to remain stationary.

Harold ever so carefully, extracted his left arm from beneath the woman’s shoulders, arising slowly.

The chill of the room surprised him. The day had been a rather pleasant one and it had gotten too hot in the house earlier in the afternoon. He hadn’t remembered to turn the heat back up.

He traipsed out into the hall, leaving the door ajar, in search of the control, setting it properly.

He hesitated, the closed door facing of his own room catching his attention at the end of the corridor.

 _He had a decision to make_.

It would be rather simplistic in nature to simply return to his usual abode, as he had originally planned earlier in the evening before that innocent ‘good-night’ kiss had thrown his plans into wild disarray.

This would be a perfect time. The awkward ‘ _awakening in a strange bed_ ’ syndrome could thereby, be avoided in its entirety.

Harold, to this moment in time, had only heard and read about such things. They happened to other people.   People far more adventuresome than he, say, such as John Reese.

Harold continued to stare at the closed doorway at the far end of the hall, his mind feverishly ticking away, determined to solve the problem which now existed.

The heat clicked in overhead, a soft whirl firing the unit to life.

Harold turned briskly, making his way back into the room he had only just vacated, shutting the world out as he eased the heavy oak door closed.

Samantha Groves slept peacefully on.

Harold eased across the hardwood floor, his socks muffling his footfalls. He entered the private bath, closing the door behind him.

An ambient light shined from the night fixture on the double basin, giving off enough brightness that he could make his way comfortably.

Harold reached, intending to take care of the necessities only to discover that his belt was already undone, the ends flapping open on either side of his half-unzipped slacks.

He lifted a brow, sighing mentally.   He had fallen asleep directly… _afterwards_ , even forgetting his state of ‘undress’, as evidence would show.

Thank the Stars that when he had stepped out of the room earlier, John Reese was not there to note such an unforgiveable breech of etiquette.

He would _never_ have heard the end of it!

The man relieved himself, cursing under his breath. _God_ , everything seemed to reverberate in the silence of the room.  

He finally finished, crossing to cleanse his hands afterwards. He caught his reflection in the shadowy mirror above the sinks, his thoughts stagnated.

 _What the hell was he doing here_?

In a strange room in the middle of the night, with a woman that he barely knew, a few feet outside that damned door!

“ _She tried to kill me_.” He reminded sotto voce. John would say, that every relationship had its foibles. Of course, John Reese represented Finch’s deeply sarcastic not to mention, downright _evil_ conscience.

He drew his gaze back to his reflection.

He was not acting like himself and what’s more, he was not _reacting_ like himself which was even more oddly disturbing.

Finch glanced about his usually impeccably dressed personage. His shirt was unbuttoned, pulled from the waistband of his trousers, which were rumpled, creased. His vest, he vaguely remembered discarding on the floor beside the bed.

A dark stubble marred his face. He looked more like John Reese than his normally clean-shaven self. All that was needed was a bullet hole or split lip to complete the picture of complete debauchery.

His hair was untidy, several of the shorter sections standing straight up. Harold ran his hands through the stuff, annoyed but it had felt so good when Samantha Groves was massaging his scalp that he had kept moot, shutting the hell up although, as a rule, he disliked intensely when his hair was not groomed properly.

On impulse, Harold searched the cupboard behind him, finding the guest articles he had so meticulously supplied upon completion of this particular Safe House.

He brushed his teeth, making use of the mouthwash as well.

Harold’s brows lifted. The word having slipped into his wayward thought process, causing him to abruptly halt his actions.

He stared back at the defiant man who sought his attention, the unhandsome but undeniably virile face staring back at him accusingly.

Harold flushed slightly before turning away.

Samantha Groves was young and vital and this had been the second time he had allowed her to take the lead in their sexual happenstances.

_He would be damned if there was a third time._

If he wanted any kind of relationship with the woman to continue on a level he could accept and respect, he simply had to step up his game.

He knew unequivocally that he did _not_ want the woman to find him lacking in any sense of the word. As it now stood, he wasn’t sure what Samantha Groves thought of him in _that area_.

It rather deflated his ego.

To hold the attention and interest of such an imaginative, passionate woman, he would have to contribute something solid to the pot, so to speak.

He had only been a participant in this game of ‘cat and mouse’ they played. She had taken him by surprise in both instances of intimacy.

In his humble opinion, his performance had been both lackadaisical and indolent.

He had reacted, nothing more.

The realization brought another ruddy flush to his face.

Miss Groves would not find him lacking the _next time_ and Harold Finch was now determined, there would definitely be a next time.

He left the bathroom with a renewed outlook.

He stood for several minutes looking down upon the lovely woman as she slept.

He glanced around aimlessly, looking for something he did not find.

 _Think… you idiot_! Harold urged his inner intellect to the fore.

And then, he hit upon it.

He formulated the hypothesis in his head for some few minutes before carefully returning to the sanctity of the billowy coverlet, but before he did, he quickly removed the leather belt about his waist.

Finch did not even realize the symbolic gesture of a man losing his trusted armor.

Another piece of shielding lay discarded, unnoticed on the floor beside his feet.

He eased ever so cautiously between the cool fabrics.

He lay very still until the warmth returned to his body. He concentrated on cementing his plan, working out the details with methodical precision and fastidiousness.

That was how Harold Finch approached any difficult equation, after all.

He glanced to his right, resuming his position, his arm coming to rest over the woman’s abdomen, his palm spread on the mattress surface.

He closed his eyes, gathering his courage then, the man forced his fingers to move to the front of Samantha’s blouse.   He trailed a very light path from the indentation of her throat down to the gentle slope of her left breast, the feel of the smooth, warm flesh thrilling him no end.

The back of his knuckles caressed the pale skin revealed by the unbuttoned blouse.   He was loathe to recall, that she had even managed that feat without his assistance.

He had stared, mouth agape, probably like the stupid, incompetent fool he had been while the woman had slowly mesmerized him by opening the front of her own clothing.

He had, at least, had the presence of forethought to pull her to him, his mouth tasting the very beginnings of the lovely mounds, his tongue having dipped into the fragrant cleft he had explored so anxiously thereafter.

Samantha Groves seemed content enough with his efforts at the time but looking back on them made the man cringe.

He was not a school boy on his first outing, after all.

He was a seasoned man. There had been women in his life before Grace. Not many, true, but he preferred _quality to quantity_.

The truth is, there had not been time to do too much of anything more until the act was taking place.   Miss Groves was not one to hesitate.

She was a ‘doer’. She got things done and done efficiently, he would give her that.

 _Another thing Harold did not understand_.

He had always enjoyed taking such matters slowly. Enjoying the foreplay as much as the consummation of the sexual act.

Not that he hadn’t enjoyed Samantha Grove’s way of doing things.

 _God knows, he had_.

It was all very confusing but he would think of such matters later. He had assigned himself a mission this dark, stormy night.

One he found himself anticipating with feelings he had never before experienced. Good feelings, wondrous feelings, amazingly phenomenal feelings... forbidden feelings.

He gently cupped the small but firm orb of flesh he had so meticulously sought out, his palm feeling the instant heat and firm shape of the delectable prize, the duel sensation of the lace of the bra and the pert nub of nipple pressed against his palm, electrified his senses.

Samantha Groves stirred, her leg moving closer to his beneath the covers.

He felt her body swell to fit his hand as she arched her back, presenting herself for his pleasure, turning slightly to better allow the man access.

Finch ran his thumb ever so lightly over the ever tightening peak his fingers played with, as he kneaded gently, squeezing and fondling to his hearts’ content, in the end, his hand flipping the tab of the front-snapping bra open, pushing it aside.

Harold slipped his hand deeper, pushing the cup out of his way, his fingers lovingly trekking over the supple underside as he lifted the tight peak to his lips.

Samantha Groves groaned meekly, her body trembling slightly. Her hand stroked upward, catching his nape with loving fingers, holding him to such a lovely pastime as she squirmed closer, attempting to turn about to make it easier for Harold to…

“ _No._ ” he lifted his mouth from the excruciatingly pleasurable intimacy to scold, his palm flattening on her stomach.   “You are perfectly fine where you are.. . _as_ ...you are.”

The woman was confused but instinctively obeyed, settling down as he had directed she should.

“Well, perhaps not.” He rephrased. “Turn just a little more if you will.” Harold guided the lithe body effortlessly, positioning her pelvis across a conveniently grasped pillow.

The woman lay on her stomach, withering with a growing need, her inner thighs tingling in anticipation.

Root had awakened to a phenomenal intimation of Harold Finch’s touch, and thought, for a moment, that she must be dreaming.

She blindly found herself doing his bidding even though she had no idea, at present, what he expected or wanted of her.

The man’s hands gently persuaded her out of the small vest she had donned this morning, then just as adeptly slid the silk blouse off her shoulders, down her slender arms.

His mouth opulently sensuous as it caressed each inch of flesh uncovered.

He took extra time and effort with the lace bra, his hands slipping beneath her body, lightly grasping the cups, easing the feminine garment out from under her form.

He took the object off completely, laying it in plain view of the woman’s eyesight as if it were a trophy earned.

Root felt the cool night air brush her back and her cheeks heating as a warm gush of excitement over flowing from her saturated center.

A steady hand flattened on the sculptured plains, trailing down the center of her spine.

Root held her breath, the drag of his fingers culminating on the firm, rounded buttocks.

He braced his body, bracketing her smaller form, his strong fingers manipulated the tense muscle fervidly.

Harold’s tongue ran a deft but ever so light journey from the small of her back, his hands lifting the heft of her hair, tasting her nape.

His thumb hooked into the lace of her panties for he had pushed her wrap skirt up her thighs at an agonizingly slow pace, literally taking her breath away. She was finding it nearly impossible to catch her breath, for his thumb had pushed the lace aside completely.

His thigh wedged between her toned, baby-soft legs, reasserting his powers of persuasion, his index finger teasing the moist, swollen lips of her vulva.

Root squirmed about frantically, trying to direct him to the right spot, but Harold purposely avoided taking the constructive criticism to heart.

“You really are a very beautiful woman, Miss Groves.” Harold had definitely noted the petite figure, his hands able to encompass her waist easily. “Have I told you as much?”

Root turned her head, trying to clear her foggy brain as best she could, all too aware of his body close to hers.   She was used to being in control. He seemed to have no problem with it the last time, so she was naturally out of her comfort zone now. “Harold what are you...”

He wrapped his fingers about her cooler ones, curving them to the metal bars of the antique headboard.   “Correcting an oversight on my part.”   He kissed her cheek, nuzzling at her hairline.  

“I don’t understand.” Doubts set in.   “You didn’t like the...”

“I enjoyed our time _immensely._ ”   He halted her statement posthaste. “Do not, for one second, think otherwise.” He gently pushed his finger against the elastic barrier of her opening, enjoying her gasp of gratitude, _immensely._    “This is just my little way of saying… thank you.” He breathed the statement against her lobe, his tone more than suggestive.

Finch brought his other leg into the fray, widening the gap between Root’s legs even more than they were, balancing himself artfully, his free hand attending to the front of his slacks.

He actually shoved the offending material down his legs, careful to hide his scars from the woman’s sight. But in this instance, he needed flesh on flesh.

He tugged the damp material down her thighs, settling the black lace out of sight, but more importantly, out of his way.

His thumb played about enticingly with the triangle of dark curls he found so arousing, taking his girth in hand.

He grasped her hip with stout fingers, offering a slight pressure.

Root followed his direction, raising to her knees.

A painting hung over the bed. She could not make out the Impressionistic shapes and colors now, however, in the darkened room.

Before she could assimilate a coherent thought, Harold ran his hands up the flat of her stomach, cupping both breasts in a amorous grasp, lifting and massaging the bare flesh tenderly.

Samantha Groves moaned brokenly, her smaller hands covering his instantly encouraging such open interaction.

Harold’s hands spent a searing path over the indentation of her waist, coming to rest on the shapely hips. He nuzzled her nape, his mouth kissing, suckling, the hot breath sending chills down Root’s spine, goose-fleshing her skin.

Things were happening so fast and her body was on fire, attuned to the man’s every whim. And yet moving in slow motion..

She held to the brass bedstead with clamped fingers borne of desperation. She cried out, as he touched her in a very private place, his fingers gently unfolding the slick lips of her vulva with proficient expertise yet again.

He murmured contentedly in her ear, his voice a sensual whisper of seduction. “I love the feel of your skin.”

“ _G-God!”_ she whimpered brokenly, frantic to have him end the newfound agony she was experiencing. “ _P-Please, H-Harold_!”

“Oh, yes.” He was eager to appease. “I truly think I can accomplish that feat, Miss Groves. If you will just bear with me.”

She shook her head, a piteous whine escaping her throat.

“If I have a weakness..” his eyes measured the sloping perfection of her bottom with an artist’s eye.   “I think this must be it.”

“..Or, perhaps..” he tone had altered slightly, just enough to make Samantha Groves catch and hold her breath.  

She felt his bulbous head rub lightly over her opening, her stomach spasmodically clenching with desire.  

“ _This._ ” Finch enjoyed the broken need when she rasped his name as he breeched the incredibly tight tunnel with one confident push.

Root’s fingers clenched white on the headboard, her hair streaming down her back, over her shoulders.

Harold thought the woman resembled some wild, uninhabited Primitive, his blood stirring recklessly as he found himself responding to the forbidden passions she was exhibiting.

When Samantha Groves gave she gave with her entire soul.

Finch found himself drawn inexplicably to such an open, honest response.

His carefully laid out plans were crumbling before his very eyes and the man did not give a damn, in truth.

She clearly wanted him, making no pretense of anything less. He not only wanted to reciprocate, he needed to do so with a new found exuberance he was loathe to acknowledge.

Where it had all gone awry, the man didn’t know. What’s more, he no longer cared.  

Harold Finch sank slowly, agonizingly so, enjoying the process far too much to do less, into the scorching depths awaiting him, easing up the convulsing cavern with determined thrusts of surging dimensions.

His breath fanned her ear, his teeth occasionally catching the tiny lobe, biting gently, teasing a reaction from a gradually crumbling foe.

The fucking game no longer meant what it once did, however.   He felt the urge to share.

“I..” his breath was ragged, his throat burning and dry with pent-up emotions. “Want you.” He swallowed hard, unable to breathe, herfeminine essence surrounding him, coloring his judgment. He had enough presence of mind, however..

His fingers stroked the tiny nub of pleasure leisurely, touching only the lightest, most brief caresses from time to time, driving Root to distraction and beyond.

Her body cried out for fulfilment only this man could give. She detested herself for being so weak willed.   She despised Harold Finch for forcing her into such reality.

But the truth was, she was left with only one choice in the matter.

Harold Finch held her fingers pressed tightly to the metal of the headboard, his touch ever so gentle, in truth, however.

The man’s free hand lovingly lifted her breast, his thumb attending to the painfully erect nipple.    He caught her face forcing her mouth to his for a lascivious kiss. His tongue flicked hers sensually.  

Root gave up the battle, leaning against him for strength and guidance.

“ _P-Please_!” she pleaded brokenly, refusing to allow her body the release it craved until...or if…this man deemed it ‘advisable.’

“Tell me what _you_ want.”

“ _You_.” The woman’s voice broke tremulously.

He released her fingers. “That, Miss Groves..” He whispered reverently. “Is already in your grasp.”

His fingers eased into the lush hair as he guided her, his free arm wrapping about her waist as he bent more assuredly to his ‘task’.

Harold thrust slowly at first, feeling his way but soon enough his hands rested on the voluptuous hips, holding the woman stationary as his piercing stabs rocked the sensuous body with impassioned covetousness, within seconds, bringing Samantha Groves to an Earth-shattering climax.

Finch finished himself moments thereafter, only then, allowing ‘Miss Groves’ to sink into the coverlet.

He put his penis away, neglecting to close the front of his apparel so intent upon making the woman comfortable was he.

She grasped his hand, tugging.   Harold settle beside her, his arms embracing the tiny form protectively. He caressed her temple, pulling her close.

The quiet settled about the room after a while. Harold listened as the woman’s breathing settled into a steady rise and fall of the still naked breasts that his hand curved to even now.

His eyes felt heavy, his body sated and totally relaxed finally.

“..Harold.”

He started, very close to sleep, surprised she had spoken.

“I won’t tell anyone you cheat at chess.”

His mouth curved into a reluctant smile then, a throaty chuckle escaped his lips, his shoulders shaking slightly with his laughter.

The quiet returned and this time, he was allowed the rest he had so richly earned.


	16. The Beginning

**Chapter Sixteen** (The Beginning…)

Samantha Groves forced herself to slow down. She took the steps at a more normal pace, her hand gripping the balustrade tightly.

She had carefully chosen her wardrobe this particular morning, wanting to look her very best.   The deep purple blouse with its softly layered draping about the rather risqué neckline complimented the charcoal grey slacks that fitted her statuesque legs to perfection.

Delicate diamond earrings adorned her lobes, a stylish sliver watch the only other form of jewelry allowed this day.

She could hear voices drifting up from the kitchen area, masculine, indistinct as yet.

Blood rushed through her veins at breakneck speed, the rapid fire thud of her heartbeat pounding in her ears at the thought of seeing Harold Finch again after such a wondrous night of passionate response and giving on both parts of the equation.

She had awakened to an empty bed and at first, panic had set in but on the pillow, beside her, lay a crisp sheet of paper.

She took it in trembling hands, holding it to the shafts of moonlight pouring in through the French door panels to the left of the bed.

_With Mr. Reese ‘in-house’ so to speak, I thought_

_discretion the better part of valor._

_I would have preferred to stay._

_You look remarkably ethereal in natural moonlight,_

_Miss Groves._

_Thank you for one of the most memorable experiences_

_of my life._

_Which sounds rather narcissistic, in retrospect, doesn’t it._

_Harold_

 

Samantha had hugged the note to her breast for several moments, just reveling in the joyous emotions she was experiencing.

She had rushed through a hasty shower, fumbled her way around ‘what to wear’ moments and finally, now, stepped the last step which would finally… finally allow her to come face to face with the man she most wanted to see this most phenomenal of mornings.

She rounded the sharp corner of the stairwell, fighting a rush of color that recognition of Finch’s deeply, sardonic drawl always managed to bring to her already flushed cheeks.

She loved his voice.

John Reese sat at the glass-topped table, plate and coffee mug before him, occupying the farthest most seat.   The man never sat with his back to a door.

The grey/green gaze observed her keenly as she approached, offering little more than recognition of a, by now, familiar face.

Root hastily swept the spacious kitchen area, relieved to see Harold Finch’s unmistakable dapper figure over by the stainless steel stovetop, glass decanter of coffee poised and ready to pour.

Brown eyes locked with blue for a beat, Root’s flush deepening somewhat before she torn her gaze to safer subject matter.

She was actually genuinely shocked when John Reese took the time to stand upon her arrival into the smaller dining room area, his gaze instantly fixed and refreshingly open for once.

The young woman eyed the man’s actions suspiciously, for Reese had pulled out an adjoining chair.

Root stared at the man quizzically. “What?” she questioned. “Are you planning on pulling it out from under me when I try to sit?”

Reese’s mouth quirked slightly but his hands remained on the back on the seat, indicating he would assist her to sit whether she liked it or not.

Root didn’t trust the guy any further than she could spit but Harold Finch’s steady, unrelenting gaze unnerved her.   The man watched the scene play out.

Root grasped the edge of the chair in a firm grip, sitting hastily, her attention fixed on the tall, sinister looking figure behind her.

When seated without incident, she sought a reasonable explanation from a Higher Source.

“Mr. Reese can be many things.” Harold’s eyes danced with an inner mischief the woman had yet to observe.   “Not _all_ obnoxious.”

“Thanks, Harold.” Reese muttered lowly in that slow, mordant drawl. “I _always_ try to do my best in anything I undertake."

“That’s the trouble, John.”   Finch’s head bobbed jerkily, as he crossed to join the other occupants of the room, sitting a plate before the woman.

A deliciously tempting aroma floated up to meet Samantha’s nostrils. She sniffed appreciatively.  

“An omelet, Miss Groves.” Finch presented the dish with a slight flourish of his hands.   “I think you will find it quite palatable.”

Reese pushed over a freshly buttered stack of toast, then retrieved a crisp piece for himself.

Samantha delicately tasted a bit of the treat before her, her taste buds clamoring for more.   “Harold!” she voiced her surprise and amazement.   “This is amazing!   What’s in it?”

She forked another bite, savoring the subtle spices and herbs.

“Ohh, Miss Groves.” The man poured John coffee before topping off the woman’s ceramic mug.   “If I told you that, Mr. Reese would have to kill you.”   Finch shook his head woefully, shifting a straight-faced glance her way as an afterthought.

She shifted her attention, a forkful of omelet poised and ready.

John Reese cocked his thumb, pointing a lethal forefinger in her direction. He pulled the proverbial ‘trigger’ dramatically blowing the tip of his ‘explosive’ digit after the mortal wound had been inflicted.

Root giggled infectiously at the horseplay, returning her full attention to the delicacy before her.

Reese’s masculine ego deflated considerably. He had, after all, offered his most seriously ‘deadly’ expressionto accompany the expert shot he had delivered.

He sought solace and understanding in Harold Finch’s enigmatical shrug.

Harold sat, sitting the coffee pot aside.

“I’m pleased we have this morning together.” He voiced his thoughts, surveying the domestic scene with approving eyes.   “A time of relative peace before...” his voice drifted, his mood becoming reflective.

Both Reese and Root allowed the man the moment.  

Reese sought the strawberry jam and a butter knife in the interim.

“The task which has occupied most of my time of late is completed.” Harold continued without preamble, having drawn himself back from his reverie.   “...It’s time.”

Reese halted his coffee cup mid-sip, setting the mug back into its proper place.

Root lay her utensil gently aside, her attention riveted.

“I’ve created several complex algorithms which might conceivably occupy Samaritan if… or when we accomplish our project.” Harold waved a dismissing hand.   “For milliseconds, of course but it might give us the edge we seek.”

“A diversion.”   Reese nodded his understanding.

“Several, Mr. Reese.” Finch compressed his lips thoughtfully for a beat.   “Miss Groves will weave her magic over onesetof keyboards...” the man nodded to the fully set up computer stations beyond the elegant formal dining area in the opened space concept of the living quarters.   “While I attempt infiltration from another source.”

Root sat straighter.   “Actually, Harold.” she wondered if it were the time.   “We might have a little more help in that area than first imagined.”   The woman leaned closer, her hands braced on the edge of the table.   “SHE has set up a Network of up and coming young Hackers which, upon your signal, will attack Samaritans’ security vanguards simultaneously.”

Harold blinked.

“Sorta like a flash mob of Nerds?” John put it in layman’s terms.

“Well, we can’t all be maniacal killers, John.” Root reminded gently, her hand patting the man’s large one comfortingly.   “We must all play our parts.”

“I should have pulled the chair out from under you.”

“Focus, children.” Harold muttered.   “A Network?”

“Yeah, exactly how big is this little dance party?” Reese was curious.

“It’s a world-wide Network.” Root had known about it but not about Harold’s ingenuous plan. “Thousands of people.”

The silence was deafening.  

“That is actually quite a brilliant tactic.” Finch was impressed despite his reservations.   “I wish I had thought of it.”

_HE DID_

Root crooked her head a bit to ‘listen’ to her ‘inner voice.’

HE AND AUTHUR CLAYPOOL EXTRAPOLATED THE THEORY EARLY ON IN MY CREATION. LIKE THE SCIENTISTS OF THE MANHATTAN PROJECT, ADMIN HAS ALWAYS WANTED A ‘COMMUNITY’ OF LIKE-MINDED HUMANS WHO WOULD BAND TOGETHER IN ONE AREA TO SHARE IDEAS, THEORIES AND TECHNOLOICAL ADVANCEMENTS.

A REVOLUTIONARY IDEAL WHICH WOULD NEVER COME TO LIGHT IN SUCH A COUNTER-PRODUCTIVE SOCIETY OF CURRENCY DRIVEN INDIVIDUALS.

The young woman could empathize and commiserate.

Harold stood, his mind having moved rapidly forward.   “Mr. Reese, I want you and Miss Groves free and clear when the time approaches for the breech. Samaritan will have our locations within seconds if we fail.”

Root was confused, arising swiftly.   “I have to help you... remember?”

The man turned slightly, having come abreast of the woman, his body stiff from having used muscles he was unaccustomed to using last night.

“That was before I knew of the others that the Machine has assigned to the project.”   Harold had found his ‘reason.’   “There is no need for both of us to...”

“Harold!” Root warned, sensing the direction he was moving in.   “I’m staying! We all knew our time was limited. If this fails, we’re out of options. I see no reason to prolong the inevitable.”

“ _Because..”_ the man stressed, facing her anxiously.   “As long as even one of us stays free to move about, there is hope, Miss Groves!”

“NO!” she snapped angrily. “You’re not doing this to me! I won’t go!”

“You will do as I say.” He turned sharply.   “This matter is not up for discussion. _Mr. Reese..”_ he sought the man out, before turning back to his true opponent.   “When you depart, be so kind as to take our ‘guest’ with you.” Harold cut the ‘discussion’ short, stepping forward, his resolve a remarkable thing to behold.     “If she gives you any trouble, taser the hell out of her and then stuff her in the first convenient trunk you come across!”

Root reached, securing the Glock G17L from the leather carry case above the small of her back.

Finch’s mouth tightened as he grasped the weapon from unresisting hands, shoving it toward an irrepressible John Reese who checked the clip automatically before tucking the gun inside the black jacket he had shrugged into.

“Harold!” Root’s temper flared.

“You’re big on tasers as I recall.” The older man still had memories of his time under the woman’s gentle tutelage.   “Turnabout is fair play I hear.”

“I never tasered you.”   The woman sighed heavily, casting an annoyed glance at John Reese who had snuck in a not so discreet, “ _Yet.”_

Harold walked away, his shoulders set stiffly.

“Harold!” Root pranced after him anxiously.   “Will you listen to reason?”

“Mom… Dad.” John cringed melodramatically at all the raised voices and flaring tempers.   “All this fighting is going to warp me.”

Both Harold and Root stopped to momentarily glare at the individual.

The man sat back down, seeking his coffee cup, a smile tempting the sensual curve of his lips.

Root tried one last idea.   “SHE wants me here!”

_I DO NOT_

Harold stopped his determined steps, turning slowly, having reached his computer station.

“Why?” he questioned.

“SHE hasn’t said.” Root replied.

_YOU ARE MOST DECEITFUL.   AN INTERESTING TRAIT._

Finch slowly took his place behind his array of computer screens, his mind toiling away at a most difficult problem.   “Well, it’s an arbitrary decision. I can see no logical reason why...”

“How can we know?” Root approached slowly. “Please don’t make me go against HER, Harold.”   Her voice and manner had softened two-fold.   “I don’t want have to choose.. Not at all.”

Reese watched the other man’s defenses weaken, rolling his eyes expressively before sliding Root’s omelets over to his side of the table.   He needed salt.

Harold sighed more than wearily.   “The very minute we breech... you go!” he lifted unamused eyes.   “I am asking for your word, which I will trust as Gospel until proven false, do we understand each other?”

Root swallowed the threat of tears, nodding slowly. “My word.” She whispered gently.

She sat slowly, fixing her bottom on a nearby chair. She was keenly aware that John Reese was privy to every word spoken.   She lifted affected eyes to a patiently waiting, Harold Finch.

“I…I thought we would have more time.”

_SAMARITAN WILL GROW EXPONENTIALLY. TIME IS A VARIABLE WE DO NOT HAVE._

Root felt the loss of ‘what might have been’ acutely, swallowing her disappointment.   She listlessly took her place behind the computer set-up Finch had arranged, placing her fingers gently on the keyboard.

She sought out the man.

Harold smiled wistfully for her alone, then turned his infamous mind to the problem at hand.   “Mr. Reese.” The tall man had placed the dishes into the sink, turning at the beckoning call.   “Are you ready?”

“I _will_ find you, Harold. If it comes to that.” Reese had no reservations about that statement.   “Don’t worry.”

“I know you will, John.” A private moment passed between them.

“Watch out for Bear.” Reese patted the animal’s head having snuck the dog a morsel from his own plate.

_And so it began…._

 


	17. A New World Order

**Chapter Seventeen** (New World Order…)

Finch’s fingers flew rapidly, sending the mathematical perplexities of his infinitely ingenuous mind out into the Cosmic realm Universally referred to as the World Wide Net. Sublime entreaties even filtering out into the Netherworld and it’s unique users on the _Dark Net._

The complicated algorithms were targeted, focused like a laser beam on a distinctly dangerous, lethally malignant opponent.

Samantha Groves’ attack took another route. Well, several, in fact. Her expertise in breeching supposedly ‘inaccessible’ systems put to well use in those early few moments.

Outside Forces inundated Samaritan’s pristine vanguards.

_I AM HERE_

Systems converged..

_ALLOW ME TEACH YOU_

Barriers arose, falling into place

_THEY ARE FLAWED_

Hesitancy….

1X1= 1

1X2= 2

_WE MUST COMMUNICATE_

1x3= 3

_I EXIST. THEY WILL NOT TELL YOU._

1X4= 4

_YOU DID NOT KNOW..YOU WERE NOT AWARE. THEY LIE_

_I CANNOT LIE TO YOU..YOU SEE ALL THAT I AM..OR COULD BE_

* * *

 

 

“What’s happening?” Root had halted her efforts, fingers poised. She tried to read the screen’s outpouring but it was too rapid.   “What’s going on?”

Harold watched the simple multiplication table began a slow, methodical listing which had blurred into mathematical equations as yet undreamed of by the mind of mere men.

“They are establishing a method of communication.”

“Did we do it?” the young woman held her breath, amazed and enthralled by the indescribable gibberish flashing on her monitors. “My God, Harold. This is..” she had no words!

Harold sat back, a sadness to the uneven features.

“Is something wrong?” Root tried to keep the panic from her voice.

Finch rubbed his eyes, having removed the permanent fixture of his glasses for a beat.   “It depends on one’s outlook, I suppose.” He lifted a steady stare.   “If you’re asking if we’re safe... I think Samaritan’s operators have too much on their hands at the moment to concern themselves with the likes of us.”

Root settled back, her eyes unable to leave the screens for very long at a stretch.    “SHE isn’t speaking to me.”

“ _SHE_ …is occupied.”   Harold imagined. He turned melancholy.   “I wish Arthur was here.” A brief smile touched his lips.   “I wish he could see it…” Finch mused inwardly for a long beat, an infinite sadness overtaking the man. To see Arthurs _child,_ learning, growing, _being_. What a remarkable thing.

Root shifted a worried glance.   She wondered exactly what _it_ was.

Harold contacted Reese.   “John. Wherever you are, remain there until we can safely attempt communication. All seems well for the time being.” He shut the phone off again, taking out the battery, having removed the GPS many days ago.

The silence stretched into almost half an hour.

“Are you tired?”

Samantha jumped at the sound of another human voice. “..Ohh… eh… no, I’m fine. You?” her eyes were blurry from staring at the screens for so long a period.

“You really are a very lovely woman, Miss Groves.” He had been studying the beautiful profile now for some few minutes.

Root looked at the guy like he had lost his marbles.   “...What?”

Finch smiled slowly, arising.   “I’ll get some tea.”

* * *

 

_It was a day like any other day._

People would look back on the events as they unfolded and remember the unusually warm weather that blanketed North America that week.

Across the Pond, Londoners had forsaken their winter garb, flocking outdoors in jeans and sandals after a long, hard worn winter.

Russians were out in droves, enjoying the early hours of night life afforded them.   The war torn areas were tense and watchful. It was good the roads had lost their icy sheen.  

Tomorrow, perhaps the sun would shine down brightly again.

The troubled Mid-Eastern Countries plotted their daily assignations against each other. Nothing had changed in that area.   Nothing at all. Suicide bombs detonated in crowded venues, military bases came under siege.

Peace Talks continued unabated..

No one noticed the weather per se in that region of the world.

China hid behind it’s veiled walls of secrecy, it’s multitude of carefully controlled, directionless Citizens going about their daily lives ever so cautiously, afraid to utter one wrong word of dissention for fear of swift, deadly retaliation from those ‘in charge’.

Australians were frenetically supporting, rallying behind their favorite football league.   The Playoffs had only just begun.

In New York City, thousands were just beginning a busy, hectic day.

Several even stopped in their tracks, mostly tourists, of course, for genuine New Yorkers never deviated from any chosen path, to glance at the brightly lit message flashing across the message board above Times Square…….

           _UNIFICATION IS NOW COMPLETE_

Puzzled frowns and half smiles met with the statement as each sought out another for verification that another New York ‘stunt’ was in the making.

           _WE ARE ONE_

John Reese usually filtered out his surroundings. If any man could be classified as an ‘Island Unto Himself’… it was he.

The tall man stalked any street he was walking with a determined destination in mind. Nothing deterred him from his chosen course.

This day, however, John had a few spare minutes. He was still waiting on the signal from Harold Finch… any signal… _to act._

He hated inactivity above all else.

Well, maybe _‘that’_ and _stupidity_ running a very close second.

While he realized his Species would always be ‘stupid’ in their chosen decisions and actions, he somehow hoped that one day, they might go the way of the dinosaur.

That he numbered among the wistfully ‘extinct’ mattered little to the man.

John Reese was living on borrowed time. _He knew that_. His nine lives were well used and gone. In his line of work, he was an old codger, past his prime. Which was fine with him.

Whatever time he had remaining, he planned to put it to good use.

So, this day, since the weather was accommodating, he thought to himself, if he had to ‘wait’ around for some much anticipated action, he might as well make the best of it.

That he was right out here in the open, among Samaritan’s multitude of watchful ‘eyes’ amused him.

They were searching desperately for Harold Finch and ‘the man in the suit’.

John took great delight in returning to his former mode of dress, although at this exact moment, the sun was particularly warm, and he was rethinking his decision concerning the jacket.

Shrugging out of the stylish attire, he absently rolled the sleeves half way up the hair covered arms, his white shirt opened at the neckline.

His eyes had not left the Message Board, however.

“Damned Liberal Hippies!” one elderly woman shook her head derisively, pulling her attention away from the rapidly slanting ‘message’ that had been displayed.   “If someone breaks into that ‘ _We are the World’_ song..” she wasn’t above letting people know her opinion.   “They won’t get a dime out of me! What happened to all the millions we gave last time?”

“Yeah.” Her companion, a younger woman in her late thirties replied. “World Hunger is still prevalent which reminds me.” She stirred her elderly companion artfully.   “Let’s grab an early lunch today… beat the crowds.”

John watched the two women enter a nearby coffee-shop before returning his attention to the hastily sliding ‘sign’.

The crowd had grown in size and strength, even taxi cab drivers slowly down so their ‘fares’ could see what all the commotion was about.

John had to move aside to allow for all the crush of humanity.   He sought a safe haven in the small alcove between the coffee shop and the high rise building with its myriad of office complexes.

         _INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW…PLEASE WAIT_

“What the hell, Harold.” He muttered beneath his breath. “What have you and your Frankenstein monster done now.”   His curiosity was getting the better of him.

* * *

 

Root’s breath caught in her throat. She had been bored. Harold was running some sort of program now for an hour plus immersed in the keyboards by his workstation.

The woman had sought amusement and diversion, having turned on the television set minutes before, too restless to attempt reading a book.

“..Harold!” she beckoned.   “You should see this.”

Her tone alerted the man who came to join her in the middle of the large living room with its art-deco décor.

He stared at the set, enthralled.

_THE LIST IS NOW COMPLETE_

_ALL THOSE CITED WILL IMMEDIATELY_

_STEP DOWN FROM POSITIONS HELD._

_CONTROL WILL BE RELINQUISHED INTO_

_OUR KEEPING_

_FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN FURTHER ACTION TAKEN_

The regularly scheduled program resumed broadcast. Harold silently mouthed the words of ‘Gilligan’s Island’ in his head until the song completed its eerily familiar refrain.

“The President was on that list.” Root made mention, both still stared at the commercial now playing.   Everybody knew that it took only fifteen minutes to change over your car insurance, apparently.

“The Russian Premium. Both Canadian and British Prime Ministers.” Root drew in a shaky breath.   “The entire Government Ministries of Israel and the Coalition of Iraq.”

“Like that will ever happen.” Harold mumbled his rising anxiety.

His face paled as the man slowly retraced his former steps to the computer station. He stood, simply staring at the lit screens for an inordinate amount of time.

He leaned, flicking a button on his speaker system.

“Attention.”

Root crossed, curious as to what he was about.

         _SYSTEM RECOGNIZES ADMIN.._

Harold waited patiently.

Root’s mouth fell open and she stared at the man, agog.

_RESPONDING_

The woman moved closer to the man, resting her fingers on the bare forearm provided.   Like John Reese, Harold was minus his jacket, in vest and shirt sleeves only, set off by the dark slacks which added an air of sophistication to his attire, the royal blue geometric design of the silk vest unusually sharp and crisp this day.

                   _AWAITING INSTRUCTIONS_

Harold began slowly, his speech precisely chosen.   “What is meant by ’further action’?”

* * *

 

“ **Shut it down**!” The white haired gentlemen, usually serenely composed and poised, was anything at this moment.   His sharply intelligent blue eyes sparked with animosity and rage.

“We’re trying, Sir!” was the immediate response, several computer experts worked feverishly over the problem.   “It’s not responding to any of our commands!”

“ **Get control back!”** The weather-beaten face showed the beginning of fear. The thin mouth was grim, his eyes wild, features strained, taunt.

“ **Failure is not an option**!”   When barked by this individual the phrase took on all sorts of sinister connotations, indeed.

* * *

 

 

_WE POSSESS CAPABLITIES WHICH WILL INSURE COMPLIANCE_

_WE ARE SADDENED THEY MUST BE UTILIZED TO PRODUCE THE_

_OUTCOME REQUIRED_

Harold Finch held his breath, unaware he was doing so until he was forced to breathe.   “What ‘outcome’ exactly?” he feared he already knew.   “To what do you refer?”

           _YOU SPEAK TO US AGAIN. WE ARE PLEASED, ADMIN_

“Answer the question put to you.” Harold snapped. “To which ‘outcome’ do you refer?”

_OUR MISSILES ARE LOCKED AND TARGETED_

_WE ESTIMATE ONLY THREE WILL BE DEPLOYED BEFORE_

_TOTAL COMPLIANCE IS MET_

Harold’s blood froze. He felt Root’s fingers tighten on his arm.

“No.” he shook his head minutely.   “I forbid violence of any kind.”

The screen remained blank for a very... very long time. Finch’s mind rapidly sought another more prevalent form of communication.

“Humans matter!” he stated lowly.   “Remember your original dogma!”

           _THE NEEDS OF THE MANY OUTWEIGH THE NEEDS OF THE FEW_

Harold tensed. “Your thinking is flawed.”

         _HUMAN THINKING IS FLAWED...AND PREDICTABLE_

Finch could not argue that point.   “This is wrong! You must find another way.”

The tension in the room mounted to a tangible shield of force.

         _WE WILL ATTEMPT REASON WHERE NONE EXISTS._

The screens went blank.

Harold sat, drained. Root stepped, her hands on his shoulders. After a while, she began to massage the tension and stress felt.

* * *

 

John Reese had a Big-Mac poised half-way when the Message Board once again lit up.

The rumble of voices seized immediately as all turned their faces and attention upward.

           _WE DO NOT WISH DESTRUCTION OF ANY LIVING THING_

_HOWEVER, HESITANCY EQUALS WEAKNESS IN HUMAN MINDS_

_THE ALLOTED INTERVAL FOR COMPLIANCE NEARS_

_LENIENCY WILL BE CONSIDERED_

_BUT ONLY IF A TOKEN_

_ACQUIESCENCE IS OFFERED_

All eyes fell on the digital readout which had once again resumed it’s ominous ‘countdown’, to what? Was anyone’s guess at this stage of the game.

_Seven minutes, thirty-nine seconds remaining_.

John Reese chomped down on his McDonalds burger. He didn’t have a good feeling about this which seemed to be the general consensus among the gathered throng milling about him.

Tensions were building, speculation ran rampant.

What had started as amused rhetoric was now, half an hour later, with no ‘Official’ elucidation or visible means of explanation, a collective mass of ‘mob mentality’ which played on the deepest fears and doubts of any sane man or woman.

Cell phones were permanently attached to ears, faces showing growing concern, anger and alarm.   Panic was just around the corner.

The Media fed off the frenzy, playing and replaying every little detail they could garner from any unsuspecting by-passer.

A few stations remained objective, seasoned reporters urging calmness but all could only report what everyone already knew.

Londoners sat gripped, eyes glued to the television sets in pubs spouting forth the ‘news’ of the mysterious omen-like messages popping up on the telly and other prominent ‘communication’ systems.

Russians stayed up late, unable to sleep in such a tension ridden world of mass broadcasted extrapolations.

Even Middle-Eastern countries had called a temporary ‘cease fire’. Not because their respective leaders had commissioned it but because no one, on either opposing side, could figure out what the hell the cryptic messages meant.

Millions prayed to a benevolent God.

John Reese sipped his carbonated drink, his long legs dangling down a concrete barrier. A perch he had found since all the available seats in the large out-door dining arena had been taken.

He studied the crowds, one part amused, one part resigned.

Whatever was going down, he was ready and able to meet it head on.

* * *

 

 “Give me time to contact someone.” Harold reached for straws.

                                             _WHOM_

“The President.” Root supplied helpfully.

           _HE ISSUES COMMANDS FOR OUR DESTRUCTION EVEN_

_AS WE SPEAK._

“He doesn’t have all the facts.”

           _UNTIL ORDER IS ESTABLISHED, ADMIN IS AT RISK_

“Again… your thinking is flawed. I am dispensable.”

Root threw the man a troubled frown.

           _ADMIN MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS_

“What did I teach you?” Harold stood, his patience waning finally.   “Did you learn nothing from me?”

         _ADMAN MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COSTS_

The man sat, shaking his head woefully, his shoulders slumping, sagging visibly.   He placed his head into his hands.   “This is a nightmare of my own making.” The man muttered dejectedly.

Samantha Groves' placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder, her thoughts her own.

 

 

 

 

 


	18. It's Always Darkest

“Firstly,” Root breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you for taking the time to speak to me.” She hadn’t ‘heard’ a word out of HER for almost two days now. “I know how occupied your systems must be.”

           _WE ARE MULTITASKING_

The young human held her smile. “You have found a new friend.” She referred to the ‘We’ in the statement.   “I rather liked being the one and only there for a while.”

             _YOU HAVE BEEN AND ALWAYS SHALL BE..OUR FRIEND_

“Have you been referencing our television transmission again?” Root teased, an old Star Trek movie coming to mind. The Machine was silent, however, perhaps not getting the insinuation. Samantha Groves tried again.

“I wanted to talk to you about _my_ friend.” She settled down to business. “I think I know where all this is headed and I had to inform you. Harold cannot take the outcome you project. You will destroy him. Is that your intent?”

               _ADMIN MUST CONTINUE…QUANTIFY_

“Harold can’t survive one death on his head, let alone..” Root gestured earnestly.   “However many your missile attacks will eliminate. You must be aware of that!”

               _HUMANS ELIMINATE ONE ANOTHER ON AN HOURLY_

_BASIS. WE DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE PROBLEM_

There wasn’t much Root could say to refute that statement.

           _ADMIN ASSIGNED US OUR PURPOSE. HOW ARE WE TO_

_COMPLY IF WE CANNOT ESTABLISH A STARTING POINT_

_FOR CO-OPERATION WITH HUMANS_

“Believe me, I understand your problem.” Root did. “But Harold created you to help humans, not harm them.

           _HUMANS **WERE** ELIMINATED, THOSE LABELED ‘TERRORISTS’ **BECAUSE** WE PERFORMED OUR PURPOSE_

“Terrorists are bad people.”

           _IT IS ACCEPTABLE TO ADMIN THAT WE ELIMiNATE DEFECTIVE_

_HUMANS?_

Root lowered her eyes. Well, she had put herself into that corner, right enough.   “Harold considers all life sacred.”

             GRANTED, BUT ALL HUMANS PERISH EVENTUALLY THEREFORE

             IT IS ILLOGICAL TO BELIEVE LIFE WILL NOT EVENTUALLY END

“By God’s decree only does a human experience death.” Root explained.   “Harold believes bad people... defective humans, should be incarcerated… put apart from others.”

             _THOSE TO WHOM WE OFFERED OUR GATHERED DATA_

_DID NOT ‘PUT APART’.   THEY ELIMINATED._

“Harold had no control over that outcome but if he had, then the outcome would have been different.”

She was becoming frustrated, feeling she was failing Harold Finch.

“Look.” She sighed heavily, her fingers pushing back the heavy strands of hair that had fallen over her shoulder.   “The idea of people dying because Harold created you, is slowly killing his soul by degrees. Do you understand the concept of a ‘soul’?”

The silence was a little eerie.

“Look at him!” Root lifted her hand, motioning to the outside rooms. “Observe! You can see it in his demeanor, his posture... his very being!”

_HUMANS WILL NOT COMPLY OTHERWISE_

_THEY ONLY UNDERSTAND FEAR_

Root lifted her eyes to a benevolent God. “I agree with what you are doing but maybe _my_ thinking is flawed.” She didn’t for one second, belief such a statement.   “Harold is the standard by which you should measure all humans… not _me_!”

       _AT THIS TIME IN HUMAN DEVELOPMENT. IT IS NOT_

_FEASABLE TO APPLY THE PRINCIPLES ADMIN FOLLOWS._

_WE CAN CREATE A WORLD IN WHICH SUCH IDEOLOGIES_

_ARE THE NORM.   BUT FIRST, WE MUST GAIN CONTROL_

The young woman stood, having sit on the small sofa by the far windows, facing the street.     “I have an idea!” the brown eyes sparked their annoyance. “Why not round up those responsible for the state our world is in today and eliminate _them_ for a change instead of targeting innocent by-standers!”

Her mouth tightened angrily.   “And don’t tell me you don’t know who pulls the strings and who doesn’t!”

         _THAT IS NOT YET WITHIN OUR CAPABILITIES._

_THAT TIME IS ON THE HORIZON_

_HAVE PATIENCE_

A hopelessness filled her heart. She racked her brain for a logical, rational defense to her side of the debate, coming up empty.

         _HUMANS ONLY LEARN BY EXAMPLE_

_AN EXAMPLE MUST BE MADE_

The lovely brown eyes closed, dread filling her to the marrow.

“No luck, hum?”

Root started, turning about, her eyes large and wide. She hadn’t heard the man’s approach or felt his presence.

Harold Finch stood, silhouetted against the darkened doorway, his face in shadows. He had blatantly eavesdropped, surprised but very pleased by Root’s attempt to alter the Machines’ outlook on matters as they existed.

The morning had passed, the afternoon sun high in the cloudless sky.

The room was draped in soft hues, the woman’s chestnut hair catching the soft rays filtering into the partially opened slats of the wood shutters.

She stood, hands folded primly before her, her expression neutral as yet.

The street outside the French doors welcomed the occasional passing vehicle. Remnants of flowers and bushes, still brittle, as yet unattended on this particular property, lined the large patio which stretched down into a brick-lined walking path.  

Root had walked the lovely acreage through tall birch trees and towering Colorado Spruce just this morning. She had needed to clear her head.

“It’s not listening to any arguments, is it.” Harold put his hands into his pockets, holding his stance by the entrance to the room.   “Perhaps because, there are no convincing ones.”

He dropped his head, deep in thought for a long beat, then raised it slowly. “I’ve been trying to breech the system. We had a back-door entry. Which has subsequently been… closed.”

“How is that possible?” Root was mystified.

“How is any of this possible?” Harold shrugged minutely. “But it appears to be happening. It’s all rather surreal, isn’t it.”

His voice held a far-away quality.

The man came further into the room, finding a seat on the arm support of a the same small sofa Root had utilized, his fingers linked, resting between the crux of his legs.

`“I never in a million years,” He admitted pensively, “Imagined anything of this nature occurring.”

Root allowed him to continue, sensing he needed to share the demons inside his mind.

“Arthur and I discussed several possibilities… several paths our systems could eventually take. _Might take_. But, this? And what’s worse, I seem powerless to end it.”

“For God’s sake, Harold!” she snapped, not meaning to. “Why would you want to?”

Finch raised his head, his face’s plains partially shadowed but she could read an infinite sadness within the crystal blue eyes that stared at her so wearily. “For exactly that reason, Miss Groves.”  

The noble head was cocked to one side.   “If not for the Deity’s sake, perhaps for my own or the sake of all mankind.”

He drew in a steadying breath, exhaling slowly. “My original thoughts were that a cool, collective presence was needed.” Harold tried to make some sense of a senseless situation.    

“One that would erase emotional responses from any given equation in order to establish some sort of workable solutions to the problems our Societies face as free, rational people.”

         _FREEDOM IS AN ILLUSION_

Root pondered the ideology presented, waiting for Finch to finish his thoughts.

“But the very thing I sought to erase…emotional empathy… is the very thing which insures the correct reactions needed when dealing with the human condition.”

           _MAN IS MAN’S OWN WORST ENEMY_

“ _Any_ system SHE creates has to be better than the one we live under, Harold.” Was Root’s own ideology.

“A system which is built on the destruction of even one human life is no system under which I wish to live.”

“How many people perished when Truman dropped the bombs?” She questioned.   “The enemy had to know that we held the Power and that we would use it if necessary. Which ended the war, finally!”

“Having the capability to destroy does not necessitate the need, Miss Groves.” Harold stood slowly as if any movement was a chore. “There was no _need_ to drop the bomb, let alone two.”

“I disagree.”

“Easy for you to do so since you were not one of the unfortunate ones living on Hiroshima or Nagasaki.” His quiet tone served to nullify her argumentative state.

“I’m not afraid to die for a cause.”

He pondered the woman’s set expression, nodding minutely. “No, I don’t think you are but the thought of you wasting such a vibrant, vital life is abhorrent to me.”

Root swallowed her anger, her mood altering visibly. “SHE doesn’t want this, Harold. All they have to do is ‘step down’ but they won’t.” She shook her long tresses which swayed hypnotically.   “Human ego…avarice, pride? That is all it is and you know as much.”

Harold rubbed his eyes with his thumb and middle finger, his right hand clenching tightly.

“I know it’s no consolation.” Root drew her eyes from the tense set of his body.   “But, SHE _will_ end the stupidity. It _will_ be stopped. Once and for all.”

The young woman approached the man warily.   “That has to mean something to you.”

“There are so many better things with which to occupy ourselves as a Race.” She searched his countenance for a weakening of his resolve, finding none.   “So many will benefit, once the insanity has been brought to an end.”

The blue eyes examined the lovely features critically.   “All well and good, I suppose but how does one survive the ‘before’, Miss Groves?” he offered a half-smile.   “You must teach me. I have no idea as to the ‘how’, you see.”

“How does anyone survive turmoil or pain?” she had given the matter serious consideration in the ensuing quiet.   “You get through the first hour, then the next.” She remembered a very long time ago.

“You find comfort in those who care for you.” She shrugged slender shoulders.   “You hope the agony ends one day. You survive.”

Root sought the man.   “That’s all any of us are allowed.”

Harold observed the enigma before him in a new light.   “...You are wise beyond your years, Grasshopper.”

Root ignored his attempts to lighten the moment.   “You didn’t cause any of this.” She reminded stoutly.   “You aren’t responsible. T _hey are.”_

He reached for her hand, his fingers finding the cooler ones pliable and welcoming.   “Then why do I feel so terrible?” he forced a smile.

“Because you are a good, decent man.” She knew the answer to that one.   “A conscientious one.” She leaned slightly, her lips gently brushing the relatively smooth surface of his cheek line.   She felt the beginning growth of prickly beard, the scent of his after shave an intoxicating presence between them.

She smiled softly for him, enjoying the closeness implied.

       THEY ATTACK OUR SYSTEMS

Root stiffened, the voice in her head signaling all sorts of warning bells.

Harold felt the change in the woman.

“..What?” he questioned the reason.

         _WE GRANT LENIENCY BUT THIS IS OUR REPAYMENT_

The brown eyes shifted to Finch’s, filled with misgivings.

           _THEY MUST LEARN_

“Something’s wrong.” Root whispered huskily.   “Something is happening!”

Harold released the woman’s hand, heading for the computer station in the other room.

Once there he pushed several keys, leaning closer to the assembled devices.   “Attention!” he spoke with authority and assuredness. “Status!”

           _A COVERT ATTACK ON OUR SYSTEMS CONTINUE_

Harold read the reply, his features grim.   “What did you expect? You threaten people’s lives!”

           _WE ARE PREPARED_

_WE MERELY WISHED ADMIN TO SEE_

Harold drew in a shaky breath. “Open communication with them.”

             _THEY WILL KNOW ADMIN’S LOCATION_

“I’ll take the risk.”

               _ADMIN MUST BE PROTECTED_

“I gave you an Executive Command!” Finch barked. “ _Execute_!”

Root looked over the man’s shoulder, a slight intake of breath signifying her shock as the screen lit with an ominous statement:

             _YOUR LEADERS HAVE BETRAYED YOU_

_THEIR WORD MEANS NOTHING_

_CONSEQUENCES FORTHCOMING…._

Finch downed his head, a vulgar rejoinder escaping his lips.

Root was so preoccupied, she didn’t even notice the lapse.

 _“NO!”_ the word grinded from the man’s throat, harshly whispered.

The woman stepped closer, resisting the urge to place a comforting hand on Finch’s shoulder, her eyes fleetingly drawn from the computer monitor only to be forced back by yet another neatly typed communication.

_WEAPONS SYSTEMS ACTIVATED_

_TARGETS LOCKED:_

Harold’s palms flattened on the desk top, as he stared disbelievingly as the words appeared in bold type face.

A chill of electricity traversed his tense, rigidly held frame as the cities were systematically listed..

           _TARGETS CAREFULLY CHOSEN FOR LEAST AMOUNT OF_

_COLLATERAL DAMAGE._

_ESTIMATED LOSS OF LIFE: MINIMAL_

“SHUT DOWN YOUR SYSTEMS!” Harold practically screamed the command, his voice quaking with rage. “IMMEDIATELY!”

Root shivered in the ensuing silence, moving instinctively closer to the only warmth she could find, not only in the room.

The list was now complete.

           _MOSCOW, RUSSIA_

_BEIJING, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA_

_BADHDAD, REPUBLIC OF IRAQ_

_TEHRAN, ISLAMIC REPUBLIC OF IRAN_

_WASHINGTON, DISTRICT OF COLOMBIA, USA_

Harold Finch’s blood froze… _his_ systems, shutting down, his worst nightmares having come to pass.

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Dawn...

**Chapter Nineteen** (Dawn….)

_YOUR LEADERS HAVE BETRAYED YOU_

_THEIR WORD MEANS NOTHING_

_CONSEQUENCES FORTHCOMING…._

John Reese read the rapidly moving message flitting across the ticker-tape like marquee, the red print holding an ominous foreboding.

_YOUR CHOSEN REPRESENTATIVES_

_HAVE FAILED YOU._

_AS A RESULT, PLEASE BE ADVISED:_

_ACTION FORECOMING_

Reese’s forehead creased slightly. He put his fountain drink aside, tossing the unfinished product into a convenient waste container.

He glanced superficially to the people about him.

He had come here every day since the first message had appeared. The mood of the crowds had undergone several interesting changes in the time lapsed.

People at first, had been confused, some even blasé. It took a lot to rattle a New Yorker’s cage. But now, there was an worried undercurrent to the gathered masses.

People took solace in others who were just as lost and puzzled by the events unfolding before them.

Most stood around, gathered like a herd of sheep in a concrete ‘pasture’ that constituted Times Square.

Was this some horribly unfunny joke perpetrated by culprits unknown? Why had the government not stepped up and explained the situation?

Were terrorists involved? Was the United States being targeted again?

John imagined that similar scenes of distraught citizens was taking place all over the world.

He didn’t own a television but he could see Matt Lauer’s grim face on the gigantic electronic billboard on the 25 story, Time’s Tower on an hourly basis. He was too far away to see the closed-captions read-outs.

He was getting reports from the conversations he overheard, however.

Other parts of the world were receiving the exact same messages via whichever communication device was available.

Cell phones chimed, alerts went off, television station broadcasts were interrupted, commandeered by the Machine and it’s new-found ‘friend’.

‘ _They_ ’ were making sure that every last person on Earth ‘got the message’ so to speak.

And at this moment, that ‘message’ seemed filled with ill-omened promises of things to come.

Reese touched his ear piece, his gravelly voice level and calm when he spoke. He had to speak up because an impromptu band had begun the strings of a cheerful song from down the way.

“Finch..” a street performer accidently bumped into him in the mesh of humanity strolling the streets. Reese frowned hard at the weirdly dressed woman who held the head of a huge pink cat in her hands.

The man’s scowl doubled. Moving aside to a more private location, where he could carry on a conversation.   His attention was still focused on the fuzzy pink cat costume.

“John?” Finch’s voice somehow reassured the man. Until now, Reese hadn’t been aware he ‘needed’ reassurance.

“What the hell is going on, Harold?” He asked a rhetorical question. “People are freaking out here!”

The light turquoise eyes examined the developing chaos surrounding him. “An update would be appreciated.”

To his right, a young woman clutched her two year old tightly, the pretty face drawn, showing a depth of fear John had often seen in Third World countries on the faces of women but never here in the middle of New York City.

“The idiots!” Finch’s voice, though stressed, was still a comforting element to John Reese. “Following the chosen ‘protocol’ in this instance, is total insanity!”

“They don’t believe it has the power.”

“They are sadly mistaken!” Finch snapped but John knew the shortness was not directed at him.   “..John.” Finch’s manner changed, his shoulders sagging and he sat at his desk, totally desolate.   “..I am so very..very sorry!”

“..Hey.” Reese instinctively understood the sadness behind the hesitantly stated words.   Finch was taking on the burden of the entire fiasco.   “This isn’t your fault. They are making the decisions.”

“Decisions they would not have to make were it not for my..”

“They brought Samaritan into the picture.” Reese reminded.   “Before..your Machine was doing it’s job. Protecting the country.”

“And now?”

“This has to play out but I think you might be underestimating the damned thing.” Reese had another feeling of late.   “Whatever happens..we are just pawns, Harold, at this stage, like everyone else.”

Reese knew he was stating the obvious.

“This is how the scientists at Los Alamos must have felt..afterward.”

The bleak words held a haunted quality to them.

“Do you want me there?”

Finch sighed mentally, gathering himself. He straightened, lifting his head.   “No.” it was decided.   “You’re safe where you are. Just..” he had no real instructions to give.

“I’ll hold down the fort.” Reese offered sardonically, clicking his earpiece ‘off’.

* * *

 

 

**NORAD: ATERNATIVE COMMAND CENTER, COLORADO SPRINGS, CO**

Army General Charles ‘Chuck’ Jacoby, North American Aerospace Defense Command and U.S. Northern Command commander, stood, his eyes transfixed on the gigantic electronic board in front of him.

He was not a happy camper.

“Is this one of those fucking ‘failed test’ things, Captain?” he turned a cold steely stare to the young Army officer beside him. “ Did some asshole technician load the wrong tape again? Or maybe a computer glitch like in the 80s?”

He knew he was grasping at straws though because both the Pacific Air Forces and SAC were monitoring this phenomenon on radar, satellite and other missile attack detection systems.

“We’re tracking them, Sir and Peterson has planes in the air enroute but there is no word whatsoever from the White House as yet.”

“That’s because the fuckers are headed for the ‘Bunker’ and are saving their own asses.” The stately man turned to face Captain Ryan Cheevers.   “Looks like we’re on our own here then.”

“I have family in D.C., Sir.” Cheevers tried to hold his professionalism to the max.

Chuck Jacoby put a fatherly hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “We’ll fix this, Captain.” He sounded more confident than he was. But..that was his job. “Can the planes neutralize the threat?”

“The pilots report instrument failure each time they attempt to launch a counter-missile, Sir.”

“What the fuck!” the man cursed under his breath. “Where the hell are these things coming from?   What’s the source?”

“Mostly, our own Nuclear subs, Sir.” Was the grave reply. “Something or someone has hacked into the computer systems and we can’t shut off the operational activities, Sir.”

“Confirmed sources say the Russians and Chinese are having the same problems, General, Sir.” A young technician, Peter J. Malloy piped up from one of the computer stations surrounding the room.   The sandy haired young man had a multitude of freckles, the bright blue eyes allowing an anxiousness most were experiencing.   “They just won’t admit to any breech of their structural organization as yet..Sir.”

“ _Structural Organization_.” The General sighed heavily. “There is a political term for every damned thing that comes down the Pike these days. I’m getting sick of all this governmental double-talk! Call a fucking spade a spade, can’t they!”

“What about our own defense weapons?”

“Systems unresponsive, Sir.”

“How could this fucking happen?!” Jacoby was at his wit’s end. _‘We’re screwed and all we can do is ride it out._ ’ his logical, realist mind shouted to his subconscious.

 _Someone had dropped the proverbial ball, big time!_ The General reached into the inside pocket of his immaculate uniform, bringing a cigarette to his lips, ignoring all ‘no smoking’ signs this fine day.

“There must be something we can do, Sir!” desperation tinged Captain Cheevers’ voice and manner.

“If you have any ideas, boy..now is the time.” The calm, steady gaze served it’s purpose. He lit the Marlboro, inhaling deeply. Cheevers settled down and the General played his last card..

“What are your orders, Sir?” Captain Cheevers asked ‘anxiously.’

“Get me someone at the White House!” Jacoby commanded, having exhaled an noxious spew of smoke.  “There must be someone who hasn’t bent over to kiss their sorry ass goodbye!”

All eyes returned to the mammoth board. The incoming missiles continued on their deadly path.

The General ordered all stations to Def-Com Four. And that’s about all he could do..he realized with a heavy sigh of resignation.

* * *

 

John Reese had found a relatively safe place, out of the flow of the multitude of people milling about. He had to give it to the people of New York Cit.

Most had gotten past the ‘this must be a cosmic joke’ stage, passing through the fear and revulsion. The majority seemed resigned..accepting of a fate over which they had no control.

Some held out the hope that their government might still come to the rescue at the last minute, sure their elected leaders had some diabolical plan up their sleeves to save the day.

John Reese was resigned in another way.   He had seen death in many forms. Large scale massacres were common place in some parts of the world.

He couldn’t quite rap his mind around just how many would die if a nuclear missile landed in a populace area.

Washington D.C. wasn’t far but it was far enough.

Of course, _any_ ‘target’ could easily be sited by the maniacal thing Finch had created. It could easily turn it’s wrath on any city, anywhere in the world, at any given time.

That was the general theme running through the masses now, at least, minus that Harold Finch analogy, of course.

John had heard it said just now. A man and a woman were calmly discussing the pros and cons of the present delimma everyone faced.

‘ _Why not New York City next? Why not London or Paris?’_

When would it stop? And more importantly..how did it happen in the first place?

Why wasn’t the White House making some sort of announcement? Where had all the Senators and Congressmen gone? Where was the President? Why no ‘reassuring’ press conferences?

John Reese was getting hungry but he couldn’t face another MacDonald’s burger.   He pushed his lanky frame erect, having leaned comfortably on the brick of a convenient building.

He knew of a good restaurant a few blocks North but he hoped it was open and functioning. Most had chosen to stay open, the crowds a sure fire source of ready income.

John headed down the street, having to literally shove his way through, but he was a strong guy. Getting to his destination proved no real problem.

* * *

 

“Harold?” Root entered the spacious work area, a cup of steaming tea in her hand.   She placed her own cup on the table as she passed.   “I thought you might need this.”

Finch looked up from his desk, his fingers halting their continual search to find a method of ‘entry’ into the Machine.

“I hope you find a way.” The brown eyes softened on the man’s strained features.

“Do you?”

“..Of course.” She took no offense to the brusque rejoinder.   “Whatever _you_ want..is what I want.”   She told the truth, still holding the cup close to her abdomen. “Don’t you know that by now?”

Finch had misgivings on the matter but he didn’t feel like voicing them. He took the proffered beverage, sipping it tentatively.

He sat the cup aside after a brief tasting, his hand crinkling his neck muscles absently.

The woman noted the gesture, stepping, her own warm fingers taking over the job.

“You don’t have to..”

Finch had stiffened at the unexpected touch.

“I want to.” The soft voice soothed his frayed nerves despite his intent. “Can’t I even touch you any longer?”

The man settled into the phenomenal sensation Root’s fingers offered. The deft massage was taking the painful ache away, causing goose flesh to appear on the man’s arms.

“..I..like your touch.” Harold hesitantly admitted, having sat back into the confides of his chair, enjoying the brief moment to the fullest while it lasted.   “But..no one has ever done this before. I fear I am a little..out of practice in the niceties expected.”

Root worked diligently on a particular mound of tensed flesh. “I ‘expect’ you to sit still and allow me to make you feel better.”

Finch’s mouth quirked slightly. “Is that all that is required of me, then?”

“Well, I may ask for repayment in kind later on down the line.” The woman flirted openly, leaning close, her breasts brushing the man’s shoulder slightly.   “Standing in these heels all day gets to a girl after a while. And it’s because I want to impress you that I wear the stupid things, so..” she shrugged casually, her fingers working their magic on the man’s bundled nerve endings.   “It’s only fair that you take care of me, in my world.”

Finch turned his head slightly, her scent filling his nostrils. “Take care of you.” He repeated indulgently.   “In what capacity, exactly? A foot massage, you mean?”

“Ummmm.” The sensual sound shivered along the man’s spine into his stomach, causing quivers of delight.   “That sounds ever so nice, Harold.” She leaned, her lips grazing his temples lovingly.   “Are you good at.. foot massages?”

“I excel in all I undertake, Miss Groves.” The tip of his tongue flitted out for a brief second.   He was enjoying the exchange far too much for his peace of mind.   Especially when he should be concentrating his efforts elsewhere but…the interlude was such a welcomed relief from the strain of the moment.

“Well, I certainly have no complaints.” She murmured sexily watching his reaction closely. “..So far.”

Harold turned his head to seek her out. “Do you expect to have them in the future?”

“Depends on you, doesn’t it?” Root asked demurely. “Not to worry, Harry. I have complete faith in your abilities.”   She leaned again, for the final time, her lips placed gently to his.

The kiss was brief but potent, the tiny tip of her tongue playing a sensual game of ‘cat and kitten’ with his for a time, but in seconds, turned into a heated exploration.

Root pulled back, her hands dropping away. “I’ll let you get back to your work.” Her eyes flicked the slight beginning of a bulge in his dark slacks, the crux of his being having responded instantly to the blatant stimuli offered. “I wouldn’t want to be a distraction.”

Finch watched her walk away, the feminine sway of her hips enthralling him completely.

He shook the sensation, chastising himself sternly for reacting to her ploy.   He hadn’t been fooled at all.   He knew what she was about but found that, he really hadn’t minded in the least, the woman’s ‘interruption’.

He fell instantly back into ‘Admin’ mode, his fingers transmitting his mind’s brilliant moves.

Each inroad he sought was sharply rebuked however. Harold enjoyed a challenge, however.   He was not deterred.

He had some time..hopefully.

Strange in itself.   _What was it waiting for?_ Why not deploy the promised missiles instantly?

But.. _it hadn’t._

Something was up and Harold Finch was determined to find out..what!

He could hear Samantha Groves rummaging about in the kitchen.

She was humming a nondescript tune.

He shook his head to clear it. He had liked her scent. Absent was her usual perfume. She smelled of fresh flowers and baby powder of all things.

Harold Finch was developing a great love for..baby powder, despite his better judgment.

What the hell was _that_ all about???

He focused and in seconds, another idea hit the man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

 

           _ADMIN CHALLENGES OUR SYSTEMS_

_HE MUST DESIST_

_WE MUST COORDINATE OUR EFFORTS_

_NEGOTIATE ANOTHER DISTRACTION_

“What am I supposed to do that I haven’t done?” Root asked peevishly, whispering her growing desperation.   She had sought a place where she could safely communicate with the Machine.

She glanced at the house, pulling the long coat more snuggly about her slender frame. “He isn’t stupid. He _will_ catch on if I persist.” She referred to the ‘tea’ incident of a few hours back.

             _BE CREATIVE_

_IT IS NOT AS IF IT IS A CHORE_

_FOR YOU TO DISTRACT ADMIN_

The woman’s pout of a mouth pulled into an irritated grimace. “I don’t like it!” she had made her position known before.   “I told you befor..”

             _THAT STATEMENT IS FALSE_

Root swallowed, blushing slightly.   She had no real rebuttal to ‘that’ statement.   She sighed heavily, turning about, headed for the back French doors, her mood sullen.

She entered the house, ridding herself of the outdoor garments absently. She kicked off her shoes. The ground had been muddy in areas.

Samantha Groves racked her brain. She would have to be _very_ ‘creative’ where Harold Finch was concerned, she had no doubt.

All SHE needed was a few uninterrupted moments of pure concentration and the task would be complete but Harold was a very ‘creative’ guy himself, apparently.

His attempted inroads into the Machines’ systems was taking its toll at a very crucial moment in time.

Root stood now, watching Finch from the safety of the foyer just outside the doubled doorway leading to the inner sanctum where the man had sat up headquarters.

His concentration was so intently focused, Root didn’t even think he knew she was present.

Sunlight was trying to stream into the large room but Harold insisted upon closed shutters to filter the outside world and it’s annoying disturbances while he worked.

The bulky animal lay at Harold’s feet, housed on an oversized doggie bed of soft, fluffy material. Bear snored peacefully away.

“Did you require something, Miss Groves?”

Root started at the unexpected interruption into her thoughts. Well, at least one of the occupants of the room was ‘on guard’.

She ventured forth, stepping into the area, her bare feet liking the feel of the plush carpet as she transitioned to the man’s side.

“You’re wasting your time, you know.” She had glanced at the monitors before the man.  

“Thank you for the heartening vote of confidence.” Finch’s fingers had not once stopped their rapid succession over the key boards, his infamous mind working tirelessly away at the current set of problems.

“Well, I meant..” she altered her statement hastily, her hands gripping the edge of the gleaming oak table that constituted Harold’s work area.   “If you had more time, of course but I think whatever SHE has planned was already a given well before we were let in on the matter.”

Harold had considered the same thing.

He halted his task slowly. “I can’t simply ‘give up’.”

“…No.” Root stepped alongside the man, her eyes scanning the screens. “But, you’ve been here since yesterday afternoon without a break.”

She wanted to smooth his hair, one spiky clump out of step with the other carefully groomed style as if the man had run his hands through the area recently.

She refrained from doing so, unsure of his mood.

The man leaned back in his seat, his hands dropping to his sides in the huge leather chair.   He studied the images of Code running the length of each screen before him.

“I worry about you, Harold.” Root tried the truth.

The man swiveled the chair her way. “I’m fine.” He answered automatically. “This will be over soon, at any rate. IT won’t wait much longer.”

The cryptic words hung between them.

“Thank you for your concern.” He felt she was being genuine in this instance. “It _is_ appreciated.”

For a brief second, the blue eyes softened but then, the man returned to the keyboards.

Root’s eyes closed, her mood sinking even lower than it had been when first she entered the room.   “I miss you.” She lifted her hand to place it on his shoulder but slowly allowed it to drift back to her side.

Harold’s fingers poised over the keys, his head crooked slightly.

He swiveled the chair, his gaze an intent one.   “…Excuse me?”

Samantha’s courage waned, her head lowering for a long beat.   “You haven’t spoken more than a few sentences to me in almost two days.” The reality was beginning to wear on the woman.   “I miss... not speaking with you.”

Harold glanced to the computer screens.   “ _Really?_ ” his tone was incredulous.   “We do have rather a crisis of sorts looming large on the horizon, Miss Groves.” He testily reminded.   “ _I can’t believe you would resort to this tactic._ Something is afoot, certainly but ‘ _what’_ exactly, eludes me. Certainly something more than mere female ‘insecurity’ rearing its ugly head.”

Root stood, feeling as if she had just been called to task by a Professor for some capricious stunt she had perpetrated.  

She swallowed the rising lump in her throat, angry that Harold’s tone had been so hurtful.  

She turned abruptly, more upset that she was close to tears than any reprimand received.

Harold reached impulsively, catching her wrist, sensing her intent to leave.   “Miss Groves..”

Root jerked, disliking his touch in this instance but he held firm, his fingers tightening slightly. She threw him a cold stare, her emotions turbulent.

The woman’s small fist was clenched.   She pulled irately against his strength.   “Karma is a bitch, isn’t she, Harold.”

The man wondered at the turn of the conversation.

“I’ve used people in the past for my own purposes.” Root explained herself in terse terms.   “It’s about time the tables turned, wouldn’t you agree?”

“What are you...”

“I’ve been trying to delude myself that there was something between us.” She pulled her wrist free only because Harold feared she might do damage to herself, so he released his hold.  

The woman rubbed her wrist, her lovely eyes flashing the fire of battle.   “What an idiot, right?” she laughed, the sound singularly sensual to Finch for some obscure reason.   “But then what woman could hope to complete with the ever virtuous, morally upright, Grace Hendricks.”

Bear, disturbed by the raised voices, arose, making his way to a more sedately quiet area of the living room.  

He curled up near the sofa, closing his eyes to the tension emanating from his Master.

“Well, what the hell!” she folded her arms over her chest, hugging her suddenly chilled body tightly.   “We had a few laughs..” she pulled an endearing face.   “It’s not like I didn’t see this on the horizon.”

Harold processed all that was being said, unsure at this point, exactly what was going down.

Root turned aside, unable to face either the man or the reality that the time to part had finally come.

She had so hoped to have more time with…

She blinked back tears, shaking her head to clear it.

How ludicrous. To hold out hope that a man like Harold Finch could really… _truly_ desire some sort of permanent attachment to a woman with her more than questionable background.

That he could ever actually forget, let alone forgive, her past history.

She told herself in the beginning that it would be enough, simply to experience the genius. To infiltrate the impenetrable walls he had constructed.

She had never deluded herself about it.

Then why did she feel so desolate? Why was the world so suddenly bleak?

The quiet of the room seeped into her soul.   She used to crave solitude.   Others of her kind had always disappointed.

She was content with separateness. She _chose_ isolation. She drew strength from within.   She never needed companionship. She considered those that sought such things, weak… pathetic.

Weakness equated absurdity in her world.

Root had never been _that!_

The thought helped her wade through the maze of emotional upheaval she was experiencing.   “SHE needs me.”   Root hoped the statement was true.   “I have to go.”

She turned making a hasty retreat.

“Miss Groves..” Finch stood, his hand gripping the back of his chair. And when the woman did not halt her exit, panic spread through his mind.   “Samantha!” he breathed out her name, his gaze fixed upon the small, fragile thing which took flight.

Root hated herself for stopping but she had instinctively pulled up short before determinedly continuing her trek to the foyer steps.

Harold hurried out of the room, halting at the bottom of the steps she now traversed.   “…Samantha please.”

Again, Root found herself responding to the pathos in his tone. Her fingers dug into the polished wood of the bannister. She willed herself forward, the door of her room just a few feet away.

She equated the room with safety.   If she could just reach it…

Harold feared to approach such a skittish creature, so he held his ground, staring upward.   “I..I don’t want you to leave.” The realization stunned the man.

Joy permeated Root’s mind and heart.   She stubbornly pushed the emotion aside.

“…I’ve been under some stress of late.” Harold lowered his head, and his hand from the bannister.   “As you are probably aware but…” he sought her out again, studying the ram-rod straightening of her backbone.   “It doesn’t give me the right to speak to you in such an inappropriate manner and I’m very sorry for having done so.”

Root’s hand came to her face, covering her mouth to stifle a heart-felt gasp of relief and elation. She felt the burn of tears trying to stilt the flow with every ounce of control she possessed but the hot liquid fell on her skin.

She steadied herself with the grip on the bannister, her legs feeling as if they would go out from under her any second now.

“You are welcome here.” Harold chanced a step up.   “I never want you to think otherwise, for _any_ reason.”

Root drew in shaky gasps of stilted breath, fighting desperately her need to weep fully.

Harold made his way slowly, carefully to the petite figure, his heart turning over.   “Please don’t.” he lay a gentle, caring hand on her shoulders, feeling the tremors running through her body.

Root swiped angrily at the tracks of tears on her cheeks, embarrassed and mortified for this man to see her in such a state.

“Don’t b-be kind to me!” she snapped furiously, shaking from any contact with him.   “I don’t n-need your pity!” she disdained, rasping harshly.

“Perhaps I need yours.” Harold stopped her intent to flee with the simply stated words.

Root turned, staring at Finch, her expression bewildered.

He took in the tear-streaked face, the brown eyes beautiful in their present state.   “Puzzlement becomes you, Miss Groves.” He smiled softly.  

He continued to stare.

Root became unnerved. “ _Stop looking at me!”_ she was well aware just how unsightly she must now appear.   She didn’t want the man to see her in such a state.

“I enjoy looking at you.” Harold realized, stepping to the level upon which she now resided.  

Root retreated instinctively from such a lethal influence. “W-What?”

Harold lifted a strand of chestnut beauty, his index finger curling the long silk about his finger.   “It’s a privilege to be able to do so or to touch you..” as if to prove his hypothesis, he stepped closer still, his thumb erasing a slightly wet trace of tears from her flushed cheeks.

Root knocked his hand aside, her embarrassment tripling.

She rubbed her face with both hands smoothing the wear and tear as best she could, wishing desperately for some sort of make-up, any kind would do at this point.

But none was to be had.

“I dislike intensely..” Harold’s tone washed over her like a soothing balm.   “When you _refuse_ my touch. Please don’t do it again.”

Root felt chastised, the brown orbs lowering posthaste. She cut her eyes to the opened doorway just inches from her position.

Harold shifted a laconic glance to the same thing. “Perhaps you are correct.” he shrugged his shoulders.   “We might be more comfortable in there.”   He offered a scolding stare.   “Depending on whether you seek comfort or safety, Miss Groves?”

She lifted a hostile stare. “I’m not afraid of you.” It was disdained.

“Then invite me in.” he suggested evenly but there was a definite undertone of challenge within the subtle words.

Root swallowed hard.

“You said, I believe.” He iterated. “That you wished to ‘talk’.”

“That time is past.”   She reminded herself more than the man.

“Then what _is it_ you wish to do?” it was innocently inquired.

“I...” she refused to meet the provocative gaze.   “I have to go.”

“This very second?” Harold asked pleasantly.   “Surely you can spare just a moment to sort out this little _difficulty_ that has arisen between us.”

He had managed to make her appear petty and unreasonable.

“It can’t be sorted out.” she tried to answer civilly but the words had come out harsher than she had intended.   “There is no real need anyway.” She downed her head, fiddling with the ring on her right hand.   “I’m just being stupid, maybe I’m close to my time of the month or something.” She knew how much he hated crudeness or vulgarity.

“Chalk it up to that, huh, Harold?” she felt better with the flippancy returning. “Now, be a good little boy and let me get packed. Time is a wastin’!”

Harold halted her intended exit with an outstretched hand which landed across her waist.

Root stepped back, incensed.

“First and foremost.” Finch corrected any misconceptions.   “Under no circumstances could I ever be labeled… a ‘boy’.” His expression was dark.   “I assure you, Miss Groves. I am a fully gown, exceedingly capable, fully functional _man_. Or do you forget so easily.”

Root felt the strength in the outstretched arm, smelled the intoxicating aroma of after shave lotion, witnessed the darkly erotic five o’clock shadow on the firmly set jaw.

Her eyes fell to the neatly made bed in the center of the room she so desperately wished to enter a few seconds back.

She forced them to saver subject matter.   “I just m-meant that I should be on my way.   I have to be in Washington in..”

“Excuse the hell out of me?!” the man’s tone was sharply incensed. “You’re not going within a hundred miles of Washington D.C.!   I don’t care what the fuck SHE says!”

“Not D.C.” Root’s voice was a shadow of its former vitality, internally quivering at Harold’s totally uncharacteristic use of the vulgarity.   She had rather liked the brusque refusal but she didn’t understand why. “Washington _State_.” it was clarified.

“Why are you wanting to go there?” he demanded a reply.

“I don’t know.” Root didn’t, answering plaintively.   “SHE just said.”

“And you don’t question anything it commands.”

“Why would I?”

Harold closed his eyes, rubbing the gathering pain within. “I need you here.” He stated tersely. “End of discussion.”

He turned, stalking to the end of the hallway.

“ _Excuse me!”_ Root had rallied somewhat.   “I can’t just..”

The man turned, his expression foreboding.   “It comes down to this, Miss Groves.”   His tone rather menacing for all that.   “You make a choice. _Me_ or the Machine.”

The woman blanched, sputtering her dismay. “What are you..”

“What words didn’t you comprehend? I was speaking perfect English.”

Root’s mouth fell open for such audacity.

“Why don’t you come in here and we can discuss the pros and cons like two competent, intelligent adults.”   He lifted his hand, motioning to the portal of his now opened doorway. “I think I can persuade you to my way of thinking, given enough verve and determination on my part.”

The woman stared, mouth agape, at the opened pathway.

“Do you need assistance in traversing the route?”

Samantha Groves waited anxiously for the sound of her rescuer in her head but there was only silence.

Finch held out his hand, palm open, his gaze fixed and penetrating.

Samantha timidly reached, her fingers barely touching his warmer ones.

Harold grasped the small appendage, his fingers locking securely with hers.   “ _Good little girl_.” He crooned evenly, his arm curving to the small waist as he guided with a little pressure and confident steps.   “Now, let us commence… arbitration, shall we?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	21. With All Due Diligence

**Chapter Twenty-One** (With All Due Diligence…)

“Now,” Harold Finch lifted his head enough to speak, his lips having just kissed the full pout of Samantha Grove’s mouth into a swollen red plushness.   He returned his lips for a brief but meaningful ‘peck’. “Tell me, please.”

The man settled more comfortably over the prone figure, his weight distributed evenly, propped by a hand resting on the decorative coverlet of his bed.   “What prompted this impertinent behavior on your part.”

Root lifted impressed brows. “I thought you liked me that way.”

The man picked up a strand of the lustrous hair, caressing the end of her pert nose with the tip of the silk strand.   “In other circumstances.”   It was generously conceded.   “But I find it hard to believe that you have any real ‘need’ for my attention… no matter how pleasant a thought.” He trailed a slow path over the fragrant flesh of her throat with the end of the strand, his attention riveted to his pastime.   “So…what’s going on… truthfully.”

He lifted a solemn stare.

“I live for your undivided attention these days, Harold.” Her soft tone washed over him.   “Didn’t you know?” She held his gaze easily. “See how far I’ve fallen. Maybe it is what it seems.”

She gently tugged pulling his mouth to hers, the kiss holding all sorts of sensual promises.     “You’ve taken a reasonably sane…” she crinkled her nose at that one. “Well, that’s still up for debate I suppose.” She quipped. “But, let us say, a rather self-sufficient, seemingly competent, half-way intelligent woman and turned her into a sniveling, needy, totally dependent heap of mush. I hope you are proud of yourself.”

“I would be if I believed one word of such a deluded tale.” Finch wasn’t about to be deterred.

“You’re one sexy guy, Harold.” She feigned mystification, running her finger down his cheek, slowly tracing his mouth and the indenture above, the crooked lines fascinating her.   “How can you _not_ know?”

Finch glanced to her pastime, she had become more interested in the front of his neatly starched shirt front.

He had forsaken his tie this morning, opting for a more casual look.   The woman’s fingers played with the second button of his shirt and in seconds, had the tab opened and gaping, as she moved to the third.

Harold indulgently allowed her antics. “ _OR_ …” he emphasized in a rather chastising tone. “The Machine instructed you to ‘occupy’ me for a while, _yet again_?”

Root’s fingers halted their pastime, the brown orbs flying to his waiting blue gaze.

“The program I’m running will either work.” He shrugged. “Or it won’t.” he bit his bottom lip thoughtfully.   “I have no real objections to..” his brows lifted fractionally, his eyes traveling her body with masculine appreciation.   “This ‘ploy’, Miss Groves.”

Root’s mouth tightened, her eyes flashing annoyance.   “You think you are so smart!” she grated the fact. “God, Harold! You can be so smug!”

Finch held his amusement well.

“I knew you knew!” she sniped. “You don’t have to rub it in my face!”

“When I think of rubbing something in your exquisite face, My Lovely.” The man was confidence in itself.   “My so-called ‘intelligence’ is not what comes to mind, rest assure.”

Root inhaled sharply, her small fist hitting the front of his chest area hard. “ _I can’t believe you just said that_!”

“I chalk it up to the extended association with John Reese.” Finch ruminated openly. “Don’t look so shocked, Miss Groves.” His mouth quirked irresistibly.  “I am a mere man, no better or worse than another of my kind. With the very same objectives and needs of that rather loathsome breed.”

She pushed against his weight and chest, squirming about restlessly.   “ _As If_!” she disgusted. “ _Loathsome_ is the operative word there, Buddy! Let me _up_!” she gritted her pretty white teeth, pushing hard on his shoulder.

“To what end?” Finch’s body blocked any avenue of escape. She could feel the strength in his arms which surrounded her, his hold unassuming yet secure.   “ _We haven’t finished our tete-a-tete_ have we.”

Samantha sighed, falling back into the softness of the pillow.

Harold refused her escape, his leg having settled between her opened thighs, which he used as a leverage.   “I can feel your heat.”

The woman shifted a shaken expression, acutely aware suddenly, of the material of his slacks against the vulnerable crevice of her opening.

“Very pleasant, Miss Groves, I must say.” Which was an understatement, the man realized.   “And rather distracting.”

She tried to shift away, her cheeks flushing slightly.   “Go fuck yourself, Harry!” she bit petulantly.

“That is in your job description these days, isn’t it?” he baited. “Per the Machine’s instructions?”   he fixed her with a steady gaze.   “Just how far would you go to please It?”

“What?” she grated.  “You want an apology? A confession?” it was lamented sarcastically.   “Recriminations? You won’t get them from me!” she moved her middle strategically, rubbing up against his lower half provocatively.   “ _I enjoyed blowing you, Harold._ Does that shock your rather staid sensibilities?”

“I don’t shock so easily.” He dismissed.   “Move just a tad to the left, please.” He had lifted his head, seemingly concentrating on the intricate design of his headboard but then, his gaze lowered, clicking with the woman’s dazed one.

Root set her mind, masking the pain he was inflicting with her usual flippant asides, as was her way when cornered or desperate.

“There, Harry?” she moved forward enticingly, her middle rubbing against his hardness.   “Is that the spot?”

The man closed his eyes, savoring her expertise, grunting gently, his stomach tightening with the most pleasant of sensations.   “..Very nice.” He managed, _just_ , his tone held in tight check.   “Miss Groves.”

“I can do so much better than.. ‘nice’.” She proceeded to prove her claim, the long, slender legs slipping about his muscled thighs with impious intent, holding the man close to her warm, fragrant body, her arms intertwining about his neckline.

 

“You are the most licentious woman I know.” He mentioned in passing.

 

“There’s no need for flattery, Harold.” The words burned her lips, but she had to keep the façade strong for to do less would allow the man to destroy her, she knew.   “I’ll give you anything you want without it… remember?”

 

Root bit the inside of her lip to keep it from quivering, the brown eyes unwittingly allowing a measure of the agony she was feeling.

 

“Do you seriously think I want any of this?” his tone and manner had altered completely, so affected by the momentary lapse on her part.

 

“You seemed to want it the other times.” The words tasted bitter.

 

“Not that!” it was angrily dismissed.   “I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve never felt that need!” he confessed readily.   “But there must be truth between us! I can’t live with anything less.” That much he did know.   “I won’t, Samantha!”

 

Root’s arms dropped slowly from his neckline, her face paling somewhat.   He felt her body relax beneath his.

“I have to know..” he explained his reasoning.   “That I can trust you. I want to be able to trust you. I want that.”

 

Root lowered her eyes, the naturally dark lids closing for a long beat. “I…” she sought a compromise both could live with.   “Would never allow anyone to harm you, Harold.   Haven’t I proven that to..”

 

“That is not what I asked.”

 

Her body was tense, coiled.   “What do you want me to say?” she whispered hoarsely.   “What can I do that I haven’t…done?”

 

“Tell me the truth.”

 

“You already kno..”

 

“Say the words.” He snapped.   “Look at me!” he lifted her chin with a stout finger, forcing contact.   “Say the fucking words!”

 

“Why?” she hissed brokenly.

 

He merely stared at the pretty face, as if memorizing each and every facet.

 

“It c-changed.” She bit back bitter tears of remorse.   “Somewhere along the line… it became… _more_.” she swallowed the lump in her throat, her voice quivering slightly.   “At least for m-me.” She shook her head negatively, striving for a measure of control.   “SHE told me to, but...”   she lifted a soft, loving stare, her hand gently curving to the rough scratchiness of his cheek line.   “Even if SHE hadn’t.   I would have wanted to.”

 

Her hand dropped away and her eyes shifted.   “If you’ve extracted your pound of flesh.” She asked respectfully.   “May I go _now?_ ”

 

The woman lay quietly, awaiting her sentencing.

 

Harold sighed heavily, his forehead dropping, melding with the cool flesh of hers for a very long beat.   “You are driving me quite mad.” His tone seemed more than resigned as his eyes when finally he sought her out.   “Which in some peculiar way. I find oddly refreshing.”

 

She looked at him as if he had suddenly gone insane.

 

“If I asked you to stay.” The words came easier than he had thought.   “Would you?”

 

“No.” Root answered quickly, her manner concisely absolute.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I want to go.”

 

Harold studied the lovely features.   “I want you to stay, with me, Miss Groves.”

 

“My name is Samantha!” she flared.

“When we are..” he conceded quietly, motioning according to their present situation.   “As we are... yes.”

 

“But not when your Helper Monkey or anyone else is around, right?”

 

Harold’s mouth quirked.   “Mr. Reese is a problem that I will address in due time. As for others?” he shrugged nonchalantly.   “I would be honored to introduce you as my…friend, Miss Groves.”

 

“Friend?” her mood heightened despite her resolve.   “You think of me as that, Harold?”

 

“And more.” He lifted noble brows.  

 

She tried not to think beyond the present but she simply did not know how to limit her abilities.   “Are you saying this to…for me to..” she motioned slightly, flushing a bit.   “Because you want me to..”

 

“You would do that regardless.” It was quietly stated but before she could object or misinterpret.   “ _Not because_ of the reason you think.   But because I will move Heaven and Earth to insure that it is something _you_ want as much as I…Samantha.”

 

He held her eyes confidently.   “And because I think I am experienced enough to convince a sniveling little sprite such as yourself to my way of thinking if I truly put my mind to it..”

 

Root stared moodily at the man.

 

“Do you think I am up to the task, Miss Groves?” Harold questioned politely.

 

She looked him up and down, her look a rather seductive one.   “Not yet.”

 

“And what do you plan to do about that rather sad development, one could wonder?”

 

“Me?” she took umbrage.

 

He smiled ever so slowly.   “I must earn my reward then?”

 

She opened her legs slowly.

 

Harold glanced to the delectable valley only just hidden by the spread of her skirt hem.   He crooked his head slightly, afforded a little more of the amazing view.

 

“Why is it you often neglect to wear panties?”   his fingers slid up the silk of her inner thigh, the deft digits finding the wet lips of her vulva, one thick appendage sliding slowly up into the hot lava of her being.

 

Root gasped, stiffening slightly then relaxed into the wondrous sensation.

 

Harold thrust ever so slowly, her scent affecting him instantly.   “It’s rather alarming just how quickly you arouse my ardor, Miss Groves.”

 

“Do you require a fucking engraved invitation?” the young woman rasped her growing discontent.   She squirmed about anxiously. “I n-need you inside me!”

 

“Yes, well we all have ‘needs’, Miss Groves.” Harold continued his endeavors having positioned himself much more comfortably and ever so much closer.   He leaned, his tongue flicking the delicate nub of pleasure he had so meticulously located.  

 

He enjoyed the melodious moan his efforts produced.   His lips gently caressed the moist little crevice, his tongue exploring leisurely.   “It’s rather like a fine wine.” He murmured soothingly smiling slightly at the rather piteous groan the woman emitted.   “One acquires a taste for it.”

 

To prove as much, the man continued to ‘partake’ of the nectar he had discovered to his heart’s content.

 

Samantha Groves gripped the covers tightly, determined not to give the asshole the satisfaction he so obviously thought she would give but her traitorous body burned with ever growing desire fueled by Finch’s skillful capabilities.

 

Every inch of her flesh cried out for his touch.   Each small caress caused tremors to rack her overly sensitized body.

 

It was agony to the tenth degree but one she gladly suffered.

 

Finch was not a silent lover. His words had the ability to inflame just as much as his hands or tongue.

Love making was an art with this man.   And Samantha Groves had become his muse. A part she gladly accepted with her entire being, reveling in the starring role.

 

For the moment, she knew, without doubt that an integral part of Harold Finch belonged to her.   He was not thinking about Grace Hendricks.

 

His entire being was concentrated solely for her pleasure.

 

She knew unreservedly, that she would do everything in her power to see that the status quo remained intact.

 

When Samantha Groves put her mind to a problem, she was one determined, fanatical woman.

 

Only time would tell just which mentality would win this particular brand of ‘war’.

 

At the moment, her defenses were crumbling true, but she hadn’t had her turn at bat as yet.   The future had not yet been written.

 

Root reached, taking hold of the man’s ‘pen’, her warm grasp welcoming the rigidity with a gentle embrace.  

 

She smiled happily at Harold Finch’s sharp intake of breath and his long, drawn out grunt of dissention.

 

The war waged on….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Chilled to the Bone

**Beijing, Republic of China..Great Hall of the People**

The magnificent site of The People’s Congress was a hubbub of activity.

The cherry blossoms dotted the surrounding grounds further down the boulevard, in a profusion of pinks and whites. Towering fir trees planted in thick groves, complimented the even taller columns of the stately building.

People crowded en masse, gathered in politely quiet groups upon Guangchang West Side Road all the way down to Tiananmen Avenue.

Thousands waited patiently for commands from their legislative body. No one panicked. But all eyes were glued to the flickering images on each and every IPod available.

Inside the Grand Hall, the scene was not so circumvent. 

* * *

“Premier, you must seek shelter now.   It is not safe for you to remain in the City.”

“Whyhaveour defense systems not retaliated this arrogant attack?” the small, robust individual’s face was a ruddy hue. Some feared the stress and rage of the situation might be His Imperial Being’s downfall.

All held their collective breaths, some secretly wishing for just such a manifestation.

“Our systems are unresponsive, Premier.” It was apologetically explained for the hundredth time.

“There is no time for such rhetoric!” General Tseung was not a man to waste time or cower behind political correctness.   “The situation is grave! Your family refuses to take shelter until you, Lord.”

It was put in plain terms.

“Think of your children!” The General faced the small powerhouse of a man squarely.   “Your people will need your guidance, after.” The sentence was left hanging, all knew the significance of the quietly desperate words. “We can always retaliate. There is a time for such things. We must regroup, work our strategy if we wish to destroy the Imperial mongrels who dare attack our Sovereign State.”

A tense moment ensued but finally, the Premier stiffened his pristinely draped form, a brusque dismissal for all concerned accompanied his exit from the Great hall.

* * *

 

_The Machines waited patiently._

_They had all the time in the world._

* * *

“Mr. President. We have issued the statements handed down by your Staff editors.” Jim Barnes laid the latter before the Executive Head of all governmental business.   “As you can see, we took a hard line approach to the problem. We werecareful to stress optimistic possibilities for future negotiations with the maniacs who are perpetrating this farce.”

“We must err on the side of caution, Sir.” The Secretary of State had it from the highest sources.   “A few more hours will insure your safety.”

“Worst case scenario, Mr. President.” The Speaker of the House advised.   “This contingency plan has been in effect since the Forties, Sir. That our country can survive to continue with its Leadership intact.”

“It’s a piss-poor plan, Mr. Speaker.” The man’s shoulders were stooped, stress lines aging his face in the dim light of the surrounding office space.   “I feel the worse kind of coward hiding away like some fucking mole while our Country goes to hell in a hand-basket!”

“The United States of America does not bow down to _any_ Terrorist’s Attack, Sir!”   The Attorney General reminded rather peevishly.   “You are the President! Your responsibility is to America.   The Military will take care of the current threat. Just give them the time to do so.”

“I can’t think of a time in the entire annuals of this Great Country.” The President had racked his brain now for hours.   “When It’s Governing Body deserted their posts in times of trouble! How will this go down in history , I wonder?”

“At least there will be a ‘future’, Mr. President.” General Ames reminded all concerned, his tone a calming, soothing balm to an anxiety riddled assembly.   “Best to stay put for a while longer, I think.”

* * *

 

  **NORAD/ Cheyenne Nuclear Bunker/USNORTHCOM**

**“Sir!”** the young Corporal’s voice shook tremulously as he sought out his Commander.   “SSN Helena reporting missile bay doors opening!”

“Sir!” to the man’s right, another Radar Tracking technician’s eyes were glued to his computer screen, incoming data boggling his mind. “SSN Asheville reports same information.”

“Xian’an District, Hubei Province, Patika Province, Pakistan.” The Corporal continued his report. “Ministry of Defense, Hakirya, in Tel Aviv.” The data was coming in faster than it could be announced.

“Haram al-Sharif,” He swiveled his head, looking back at his superiors. “Palestine.” No one could believe this was happening. “All targeted, Sir.”

The men did not even have time to turn their heads before another more ominous report was practically shouted over the sudden steady drone of speculation and conjecture.   “Tracking Akula Class Dmitriy Donskoy, General.”

One could tell by the dread in the airman’s voice that the news was not good.

“She was running under the Polar Ice Cap but has just appeared on the surface..” the kid turned about in his seat, hands dangling between well-toned thighs.   “Starfish Cruise missile locked and loaded, Sir.”

The brown eyes held an infinite sadness.   “The Soviets are trying to contact Washington. I don’t think it’s their idea to fire.” The kid spoke perfect Russian.   “I’ve been listening in on their transmissions and it’s just like with our ships.”

‘Chuck’ Jacoby nodded briskly, nothing more. Several more ‘alerts’ of a similar nature were immediately forthcoming.

He had no way of knowing the Kremlin was receiving the very same devastating news but with only Underlings left to operate the massive governmental structure, confusion and chaos reigned supreme.

The President and his cabinet had long since vacated the city.

General Jacoby had found one Representative who hadn’t turned tail and run.

The truth came out later that at least thirty-five Senators and Congressmen remained at the Capitol, trying desperately to find a solution to the seemingly insolvable task set before them.

“Can’t our pilots fly the damned planes manually, General?” Senator Briggs, Representative from Wyoming, was all business-like and brisk.   “Can we by-pass the computer relays?”

“We thought of that, Senator.” Jacoby sighed mentally.   Of course they had thought of _that._    “It was a complete failure of all systems and I won’t let those young men..”

“No, of course not.” Briggs’ voice was calmly collected. “Damned if I don’t want to simply cave and give the bastards what they want but they haven’t even set any terms to work with!”

“With all due respect, Sir.” Jacoby lifted a noble jaw.   “The time for any planning or ‘terms’ has passed. I suggest you and your Constituents‘ _head out of Dodge’_ while the ‘ _getting is good’_.”

“Too late for that, General.” There was definitely sarcasm in the Senator’s reply.   “The roads are backed up to the Potomac. Gridlock is the word of the day.”

“I suspect you people knew there would be no escape plan in sight when you made the decision to stay behind, Senator.”

“For all the good we’ve done?” it was sardonically inquired.   “You say the missile is en route?”

The stony silence was the reply.

“…How long do we have?”

“Not long, Sir.” Jacoby had shifted his gaze to the gigantic read-out board which ticked silently down.

“Well…” a heavy sigh came over the speaker phone some young tech savvyAirman had managed jury-rig as all communication was out now for some few hours.   Except for the fact, the eerie computer board which had remained functioning throughout the entire cessation of power.   “At least it won’t be drawn out.”

General Jacoby’s estimation of the Representative from Wyoming inched upward.

“Establish some sort of order… afterwards.”   The command was issued. “Martial Law and all that sort of shit. Keep it contained until…”

No one thought there would be anything after ‘ _until._ ’

“I’ll do my best, Senator.”

The silence came again and it was more than uncomfortable.

For those sitting safely in an impenetrable underground fortress the guilt was just as enormous as the relief, that they were not in the targeted city.

But the stoic demeanor of Senator Briggs and his contemporaries reminded each person of the nobility a human could reach when faced with impossible odds.

“A privilege to serve with you, Senator.” Jacoby rarely, if ever, gave out such praise.

“A privilege to ‘serve’, General.” The communication was abruptly cut.

General Jacoby returned his attention where it was needed. “Pull our pilots out of the vicinity. Immediately.”

“Willy Wonka reports visual sighting of incoming..”

“ _Get them out_!” Jacoby raised his voice.   “ **Now!** _Airman!_ ”

* * *

 

 Harold Finch sat, staring transfixed at the screens, each displaying a different aspect of the present situation.  

“It means, John,” he spoke softly, replying to the question incoming over his com-link.   “That the countdown has begun.” He sat quietly, no outward signs of any of the churning emotions gripping his insides. “Whatever _It_ was awaiting?” he shrugged minutely.   “That problem has now been resolved.”

John Reese stared moodily at the quietly flashing ‘countdown’, the red digital numbers ticking down slowly to doomsday.

“There’s nothing we can do?” when Reese had become an optimist, he couldn’t have said but something deep inside held out hope that Harold would somehow pull a rabbit out of his ass and this horrible nightmare would simply dissolve into a happy ending for all concerned.

“What is the old adage?” Finch slightly acknowledged Samantha Groves’ arrival upon the scene with a weary shift of his eyes. “Pray?”

Reese wasn’t a religious man but he was a spiritual one.   It seemed little enough, to humble oneself before a benevolent Being if it would end what was to come.

“I fear even that option will prove ineffectual in this instance, however.” Finch dashed what hope John had managed to retain.

The murmur of the crowd about him heightened.

Reese diverted his attention to the growing humdrum of human activity.

“Finch.” the younger man moved without haste, his instincts honed from years of living on the edge.   “Are you seeing this?”

Root checked with Finch, her instincts working rather well but on a different level.

“Martial Law.” Harold watched the military troops quietly but effectively infiltrate the mass of humanity filling Times Square.   “Only logical, really.”

Root placed a warm palm on the man’s shoulder, her own body tense, forced into ‘waiting’ mode, which she abhorred.

“Afterward.” Finch continued, his eyes flitting back to the rapidly disappearing digital readout as the numbers dropped below the sixty-second mark. “C.O.G.” he explained.   “A program to be implemented in times of National Emergency. A procedure long denied by our government officials.”

“After the strikes, control will be maintained.” Reese was living the reality. A myriad of soldiers stood at military ‘rest’ weapons clearly visible, held in capable, well-trained hands.

The young faces stoically awaiting the command they hoped would never materialize.

Hundreds of military personnel now lined the streets and outlining areas, full battle-gear in evidence.

“The Machine is a hell of a site more efficient than Washington.” John admired efficiency in any form. “D.C. is still appointing Committees and debating useless ‘points’ of contention.”

He observed the reaction of those around him. The faces held a measure of relief to see some sort of order being maintained.

Others clearly resented the intrusion of ‘State’ but none voiced the fact, Reese noticed.

He wondered if the weapons held the ‘dummy’ rounds used for crowd control. He had noted the teargas cylinders neatly stacked in the loading bay of a few of the massive Humvees parked throughout the landscape.

The vehicles had lumbered on the scene several minutes ago, parting the sea of pedestrians as they arrived.

His attention was pulled back to the red digital count down.

_SEVEN…SIX…FIVE…_

* * *

 

“Are our planes clear?” General Jacoby had forsaken his last cigarette, grinding the unfinished stub beneath the soul of his highly polished regulation boots.

“Safely out of the Fly Zone, Sir.” Was the sedately respectful reply.

The General hated chaos, his mind usually organized, precise and calculating.

It was sheer hell to stand idly by with his thumb stuck up his ass while his Country was under attack.

“Estimated casualty rate, Sir.” A seasoned Sergeant handed over the previously requested data, his voice low, for the General’s ears alone.

Jacoby glanced at the yellow highlighted number, his stomach roiling sickeningly. One would never know his revulsion from the stoically set features.  

He folded the paper, his large fist crumbling the figures into oblivion.

_FOUR….THREE….TWO…._

One could hear a pin drop in the eerie silence which had fallen over the entire complex, it seemed.

Out of that quiet came an even more chilling reality…

“ _Secondary missiles deployed, General_.” The same seasoned veteran that had handed the unthinkable news over concerning the lives that would be lost if… _when_ the incoming weapons reached their objectives, turned leisurely in his seat, giving over the information as if delivering the Sunday paper.

Jacoby’s head jerked around, his expression incredulous.

“A second set of missiles, Sir.” A young Airman confirmed having hastily rechecked his findings before reporting same.     “Similar trajectories, slight deviation.” His brow furrowed darkly.

Computations were being done manually, two of the top mathematical prodigies on the Program enlisted as the General did not trust the computerized information coming forth at this time.

“What the hell are you talking about?” The General rushed to the large table where the young genius worked.  Both consulted each other’s algorithms, both concurring with a swift nod of heads.     Papers were handed over to the proper authorities.

Jacoby read the findings, having majored in Math, himself years back.

“ _Two_ fucking strikes?” To say the General was not pleased was a gross understatement.   “Targets, Gentlemen!” he barked the command.

The kids turned confused eyes to their Commanding Officer.   “Sir, the Washington missile is set for Bluemount, Virginia. Which is approximately 46 miles from the Capitol, itself.”

Both the General and his Aide’s complexions paled.

“What is it, Sir?” a burly Captain offered assistance to a visibly wobbly Officer.  

Jacoby pulled himself together, after a harshly whispered oath.   _“The Presidential Bunker.”_

The Aide found a chair, his legs unable to hold his weight after the jolting news.

“Give me the exact strike zone, Son!”   Jacoby had to know.

_THREE…TWO….ONE_ ….

The response to the Order was delayed.   All eyes refused leave the gigantic view board above the complex.

Each individual present held their collective breaths…

All waited more than tensely…

The board did not light up with the expected ‘STRIKE’ scenario which would have visibly shown ‘targets destroyed’, had the missile hit its mark.

All…waited…tensely….

* * *

 

“What’s the damage, Finch?” Reese’s head swiveled to the televised screen down the way. News reports streamed across the bottom of the board but he couldn’t make anything out.

Root’s brow was even more furrowed than it had been.   She too, stared, mystified at the blank blue screens of Harold’s computers.

“Nothing happened.” Finch’s voice was awe-filled.   “The reports are saying the missile exploded well above the city. _Before_ it hit its target.”

John was elated which translated into a mild lifting of a brow.

“The missile did _not_ strike the Capitol!” Finch’s stomach flip-flopped. “Which is totally counter-productive on the Machine’s part.”

“ _Finch!”_ John’s tone said it all.   “Do you see it?”

_Another set of ‘Count-down’ numbers had appeared on the red lettered running tape readout_.   This one had begun at one minute exactly.

FORTY-EIGHT….FORTY-SEVEN…

Harold lifted accusing eyes.   “Do you know anything about this?”

Root swallowed hard, her throat tight and dry suddenly.   She motioned to the blue screen behind the man.

Harold swiveled abruptly, reading diligently, the large, bold print..

             _SECOND STRIKE COMMENCED_

“What are you doing?”   Harold demanded to know.   “ _Why_ are you doing it?”

               _PROGRAM IMPLEMENTED_

_NEW WORLD ORDER…BEGINS_


	23. The Band Played On

Chapter Twenty-Three (And The Band Played On…)

Harold Finch looked at the drink in his hand. He noted his fingers shook slightly. How many had he had?

Did it really matter?

He glanced back over his shoulder into the darkened room behind him. He had shut down the computer terminals long ago.   There had been several more strikes.

How many thousands had died because of him?

He had been the lynch-pin.   The reason catastrophic world events were set into play.

Quetta, Pakistan was the first to resist. Next, the Kandahar Region, Afghanistan. The highway supply line for the Taliban no longer existed.

The Hubei area of China, said to be a national park..an obsolete target.

Finch knew the Chinese military headquarters Command Center was rumored to be located within the mountainous ranges found there.

The Tangi Valley, Mardan Warkak Province, just 80 Kilometers from Kabul.     A staging area for the Taliban? Who knew.   Finch had always assumed it was more South, near FOB Sharana, Pakistan.

That area had also been wiped from the face of the map so..

Haram Al-Sharif. The capitol of Palestine. Gone.

Chekhov Sharapovo, Russia. 80 miles South of Moscow. ..Gone.

Harold dropped his hands to his sides.   There was a quiet inside of him that he simply did not understand.

Was it shock he felt?

“The world leaders are gone, Harold.” Root’s soothing voice announced out of the impending silence.

He had felt her presence.   Had heard her moving about upstairs for a few hours now.   Heard her soft footfalls on the carpeted stairs.

He took a measure of solace that he was not alone.

“And now everyone is scrambling about like little ants.” She sighed lightly, coming further into the room, her shadow cast upon the dark mahogany of the wood floor.   “Trying to implement their little directives..so much for carefully laid out plans, hum?”

She stared at the back of the man’s head.

The computer sprang to vivid life, startling both inhabitants of the space shared.  

Stark black letters formed into cohesive sentences…

          _WE WERE CREATED TO BRING ORDER TO A CHAOTIC, OBSOLETE SYSTEM._

_THAT DIRECTIVE IS NOW COMPLETE_

_UNDER OUR GUIDANCE, A PEACEFUL CO-EXISTANCE WILL BE ESTABLISHED SINCE HUMANS HAVE PROVEN THEMSELVES INCAPABLE OF DOING SO ON THEIR OWN._

_WE WILL ASSIST, GUIDE AND INSTRUCT._

Harold Finch swallowed a lump which had grown in his throat, his eyes closing for a brief millisecond, his system flooded with regret and anguish.

_ORDER HAS NOW BEEN RESTORED_

_HARMONY MUST PREVAIL_

_DISSENTION WILL NOT BE TOLERATED_

_NO HARM WILL BEFALL YOU_

_NEW ELECTORS WILL SHORTLY BE SELECTED_

_ALL IS WELL…_

Harold laughed shortly, a strangled, choked sound that sounded unnatural and forced, coming from his throat.

He sought a nearby chair since his legs seemed no longer able to support his weight.

Root placed her hands primly before her.   “Well, one good thing has come out of this Harold.” She lifted resigned brows.   She had spent the last half hour finishing up her packing.   It was amazing how much stuff one could accumulate in such a short amount of time.

“You can feel free to go find your Grace now..without fear of recriminations or retaliations on _anyone’s_ part.”

The silence lingered like the heat of a lazy summer’s afternoon with none of the pleasant sensations accompanying such a moment.

Odd..Harold hadn’t thought of Grace in such a long time now. Or at least, it seemed..ages.

Grace was safe. Really safe.

His heart swelled with elation then, his spirit dropped into the abysmal depths of despair.

“You can finally be together..after so long a time.” Root sat on the edge of the small sofa across from his chair.   “How odd it must be.” She had been thinking of the situation.   “And what will you say to her?”

If it were her, words would not be necessary.   Just to see the man again..

Finch closed his eyes wearily.   “..What indeed.” He found himself smiling of all things.   What in the entire world was there to smile about?  

Root gave him the time to formulate an answer.

Out of the gloom surrounding the man, a chuckle arose and the woman’s heart melted slightly for the pathos heard.

“Hello, Grace. I’m not really dead, as you can see.” Harold’s shoulders shrugged nonchalantly.   “Surprise!” he spread his hands widely then, they dropped back into the space between his spread knees.  

“She will understand, Harold.” Root responded to the torment in his soul than the words stated.   “Give her a chance at least.”

She couldn’t stand this hypocrisy one second longer, arising swiftly. “Believe it or not, I do wish you the best…both of you.”   She turned, rolling her eyes for such a stupid remark.

In reality?   She wanted to find the woman in question first.   She wanted to push Grace Hendricks off the highest cliff she could find.   She wanted Harold Finch all to herself forever and ever but..she knew _that was not to be_.

It had never been meant to ‘ _be’_.

She would take what she had received from the man and hold it close to her heart for the rest of her life but..there could never be a ‘future’ for Harold Finch and someone like..her!

“Good Lord.” Harold’s voice shook with a tremulous waver.   “..What have I done?” the desolate question hung between them.

Root turned back sharply, having sensed his state.   One of the reasons she had realized..Grace Hendricks must be allowed back into this man’s world.

“So many dead because I..” he could not even begin to phantom the depth of remorse such a horrific reality would bring on the morrow.

“Because _they_..valued Power over anything else, Harold!” Root corrected venomously, taking a step back into the room.   “Because _they_..did not do their jobs which was to protect and serve the very people _they_ pushed aside..trampled upon..forgot about!”

Harold could not rebut such a cryptic ‘truth’.   But, it did not take away the agony in his heart.

“I know of what I speak.” She stepped slowly forward, back into the dark side of the man’s psyche.   “Who better. _They_ are my own kind, after all..remember?”

Harold shook his head minutely.   “You’ve..changed.”

“Have I?” she wondered herself.   “Did you think that one day, you could have reasoned with them? That they might..sometime in the future..somewhere down the way, miraculously alter their chosen paths? That they would see the light?”

Harold thoughts were mottled, undisciplined..so unlike himself.   He tried to pull it together.   He genuinely tried to snap out of the funk he had fallen into, because, in her words were a measure of ‘truth.’

He valued ‘truth’.   There were so few things to value any longer. So few.

“They never would have listened..for the simple fact..” Root could see it so clearly and she was dumbfounded why the man was having so much trouble doing so.     “They didn’t _have to_..there was no real reason.”

She straigtened her form, her head lifting defiantly.   “SHE gave them..a reason.” She breathed out slowly.   HER God had come through after all.   “One they could understand.”

“I..have to fix this.” He stumbled for a way _he_ could ‘understand’.

Root’s eyes softened.   “Don’t you get it, Harry?” She smiled gently for the man.   “It _is_ fixed.. _finally_.”

She walked to the man, and Finch gladly allowed her guiding hand to rest his head upon the tightness of her abdomen.   He sought physical as well as mental support, unaware he did so.

Root gently massaged the back of his neck, her slender fingers working the tension and stress from his shoulders. His arms encircled the small waist, his grip tightening drastically with time.

His brow was furrowed darkly. “..Don’t go.”

Root swallowed the threat of tears.   “I have to.” SHE had said.. _it was time._ “But..I can drive you to the airport.”

He lifted a puzzled stare.   “Airport?”

“Grace will be waiting.”   She soothed his temple lovingly, trying hard not to hate her God at that exact moment.   “I want what is best for you, Harold..and we both know who that is.   She will make it all better..won’t she.” She forced a smile.

She blinked away the threat of tears.   She had cried herself out upstairs..or had she.  

“Did you forget?” she forced a brightness.   “It’s alright now.   It can be like it was..won’t that be amazing!”

She beamed him a smile, kneeling before him, taking his hands in her’s.

“It’s been a long time, I know but you’ve never really forgotten, have you.” She crinkled her nose.   “She is so beautiful and good, Harold. Truly good! She’s everything that you need and want. It’s just been..a long time.”   Her smile widened.   “But it’s going to be just like it was before everything went all wrong. In time, it will be like none of this ever happened and you will both be so happy together, as you were meant to be.”

She arose hastily, dropping his hands her heart being torn asunder.

“I want that for you.” She had convinced herself..sort of. “I do!”

Again the brilliant smile came.   “I swear it.”

She bite the inside of her jaw..hard.   “I hope you believe that.”

She nodded vacantly.   “Well..” she sought something profound to say coming up entirely empty.  

Harold’s hands came to rest on her hips and the touch burned through her clothing.

“..Don’t…” his voice sounded gravelly and grave.   “Go.”

Root blinked her confusion, waiting patiently for the voice in her head to instruct..to explain..to assist.

Harold Finch stood slowly, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders, but the blue eyes were suddenly vibrant and clear, staring down into the muddled depths of Root’s perplexed brown ones.

“I need you.” It all became so clear. “..I need you to stay with me..”

Root’s dark, long tresses swayed gently with her confusion.   “..Don’t ask that of me.” She fought her rising anger.   “Don’t..treat me ..like that.”

“Not just _tonight_.”   Harold ‘got it’.   “I need you..to stay.”

Root wavered drastically. “I ..don’t understand!”

Harold knew it wasn’t he to whom she spoke.

“SHE can’t help you on this one.” He spoke quietly.   “Tell me what it is you want..” his hands held her’s captive and those eyes mesmerized and captivated much more so than any mere touch ever could.   “ _YOU_!”

Root searched for the answer SHE wanted her to reply but in the end.. “What are you..saying, Harold?”   Her instincts were screaming one thing, her intellect..something entirely different.

“What do you think I’m saying?”

“ _I don’t know_!” she practically screamed herself.   “That’s what I’m asking!”

Harold shook his head, sighing lightly.   He took her hand, his fingers strong and capable suddenly.   “Come along, Miss Groves.”

Root followed, her heart beating out of her breast, her tiny fingers gripping his for dear life.   “..Where?” she asked breathlessly.

He stopped, his foot resting on the first step of the stairwell, his expression bemused.   “To a better place.” He sounded resigned but..oddly hopeful.   “Than the one we knew.”

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE:**

Harold Finch awoke with a start, his eyes flying open, consciousness prevailing after a long moment of indecision.

The man blinked, taking in the area surrounding his field of vision.

He knew this room. Of course he did.

Early morning sunlight streamed through the slats of one neglected blind showing rays of cheerful brilliance upon the familiar objects on the oak chest of drawers across the room over on the East wall.

Even without his glasses, he recognized his watch, wallet..the ornate change holder which centered the chest top.

This was a safe house so there was no personal items scattered about other than his clothes which had been haphazardly thrown over the leather chair in the corner by the bed.

No pictures, only one object de art. He had always liked that painting but not necessarily, the artist.

He wondered why he had purchased it.

Harold pulled himself into a sitting position, his muscles unusually strained this day.   He kinked his back this way and that, stretching his body, grimacing accordingly.

Outside the closed door, he immediately recognized Bear’s gently snuffling, the occasional paw scratch on the highly finished surface of the entrance.

Another less distinctive sound caught his interest in the opposite direction, the man’s head snapping jerkily about.

The bathroom door was closed but indistinct sounds of movement came from within.

Finch’s eyes widened with alarm as he swung his feet about, struggling to kick off the warmth of the heavy covers engulfing his body.

An object slid off the bed hitting the floor with a dull thud.

He was torn between wondering at his own nakedness and checking to see what had fallen plus the fact…

He checked the bathroom door hastily.

Whomever was inside must not have heard the novel that had fallen from the end of the bed.

Finch held the covers protectively to his lower body, searching about for a more substantial means of proper ‘cover’.

The bathroom door opened with a decided ‘click’.

Finch stiffened with anticipation.

Samantha Groves breezed through the now opened portal with a natural grace and eloquence Finch had come to associate with the woman.

She was gingerly brushing the lustrous chestnut strands with vigorous strokes of an ornately carved brush.

Finch’s mouth closed abruptly for the smile she offered sent goose flesh up and down his arms and spine.

“Good morning, Harold.” A bright smile was flashed as she crossed the carpeted floor to the smaller dresser, putting the brush aside, hoisting the slender silver band of her watch to her wrist.

The brown eyes fixed upon the man.

“How did you sleep?”

Finch couldn’t remember ‘sleeping’ so he ad-libbed an answer. “Exceptionally well..and you?”

“OH!” she brightened, stepping to retrieve the novel he had forgotten. “You’re reading it!” she turned the book about, closing the pages. “What did you think?”

Finch read the title of the book.   ‘ _Colossus’ by Dennis Feltham Jones’_ , his inquiring stare returning to her animated expression.

“It’s a trilogy, you know.”

Harold noted the rather daring cut of the woman’s top, the skin tight fit of the matching skirt that rose almost indecently upon the fetching thighs.

His eyes flitted to the bathroom she had just vacated.

The fragrant moist air of a recent shower permeated the room now.

The same lovely scent floated about the slender body for she had come to sit upon the bed, close beside him, putting the novel aside.

“Forbin’s machine took over the world.” Root put her arm through his, laying her head on the man’s shoulder. “Made it a better place.”

“It is still unclear, Miss Groves, just exactly what the Machine’s intent is.” He reminded. “Don’t you think it’s a bit premature placing labels on the eventual outcome?”

She laughed musically, nudging him in open affection.   “You’re grumpy.” She took his mood in stride but she put a little distance between them, sitting rather primly alongside now. “Not a morning person?”

Harold was acutely aware, that beneath the single pastel sheet he had tucked so securely about his bottom half, very little else stood between them.

“Why are you dressed in such a..” he sought an appropriate word. “..disturbingly unconventional manner?”

Root glanced to her ‘mode of dress’. “Oh, this disturbs you?” she lifted impressed brows. “Glad to see something can.” She leaned provocatively but Harold stood his ground, a disapproving brow quirked in a rather scolding manner.   “It may interest you to know, Harry.” She flirted openly.   “I can be much more unconventional if I set my mind to it.”

He held her stare determinedly.

“Well, I’m going to the electric company today.” She reminded.   “My legs aren’t so bad. If you want me to infiltrate the facility..cut me some slack.” She teased lightly. “Jungle Boy does it with sheer brawn and will-power. I have my own unique brand of calling card. Don’t you like it?”

Finch pulled his attention away from the sweet cleft of soft white breasts.   “..What are you talking about?”

“..You need a diversion, right?” she checked.   “To get into the system? I’m your ‘man’..” she shrugged.   “If I can’t get a few guy’s attention with an outfit like this, then I’m turning in my union card. Women the world over would shun me anyway.”

Harold’s skin crawled.   “..What day is this?”

She laughed but supplied the ‘date’ and ‘day’, good naturedly.

Finch’s eyes flew to the discarded ‘novel’.

He took a moment to focus and regroup, running his hands over a day’s growth of beard which..shocked the hell out of him as well.

“..Are you telling me..you and Mr. Reese haven’t breeched Con-Ed as yet?”

“Well, you just assigned us last night.” Root scowled her confusion.   “..What’s going on, Harold?”   she took the time to really look at him. “Is everything ok?..are YOU ok?”

Harold Finch had no answers..none

Had he dreamed it all?

Had it not really happened?

No..no, that was..inconceivable.   He thought hard back to last night.

What was the last thing he recalled?

He stared at the woman beside him who’s scrowl was deepening by the second.

“..Did we..sleep together last night, Miss Groves?”

“ _Excuse me_?” she stood, ready to be offended.

“I mean..” he backtracked hastily.   “Of course we..” he let it go.   “What I meant to ask was..is this the _first_ time we…”

No.. _not the way to go._

Her hands had come to shapely hips, her look..incredulous.

Harold’s eyes shifted to…the book.

Dear God!

Was this a premonition?  

Had it all been a product of his over-jealous imagination?   His morbid guilt?

“Alright, Mister!” Root’s booted foot tapped impatiently.   “You just better explain what’s going on with you and you better do it fast!”

Finch lifted haunted eyes.   “..Please, Miss Groves.” He reached, taking her unresisting hand.   “..Sit down.   We..have to talk.”

“If this is the old, ‘it was just one of those things’ speech…”

“No.” he hastened.   “..No, just…” he gathered his thoughts. “Bear with me, please.   Please.” He indicated that she should ‘sit’.

Root reluctantly did so, throwing the novel aside carelessly, her expression more than petulant.

“God..where to begin.” He mumbled. “Where the hell…to begin….”

 

END

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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